


I Damn Well Mean to Try

by emmerwrites



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romantic Angst, Sexual Tension, blatant use of in-game dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 34,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmerwrites/pseuds/emmerwrites
Summary: A continuing collection of my Aymeric/WoL pieces featuring my OC. Varying length, some connected, some not; all meant to build something of a picture of the relationship and the themes that mean the most to me therein. A mixture of one-shots and ongoing narrative.Please check Table of Contents (Chapter 1) for specific warnings as well as notes on timeframe. Doesn't have to be read in order, but things might make more sense if you do! Contains Stormblood spoilers.





	1. Table of Contents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Table of contents below for your reference with specific warnings/tags/ratings/etc. I cannot seem to write anything in order, but I have arranged the chapters in a way that should help the story make sense. Feedback loved and appreciated and all that, mainly just thank you for being here!

**1\. ToC** (You are here!)

 **2\. The Wine Cellar** (pre-relationship, barely. First kiss things. Sexual tension and fluff)

 **3\. Weakness** (followup to The Wine Cellar. Mostly fluff)

 **4\. All the Time in the World** (Aymeric POV. Implied/referenced sex, hot fluff, sometimes Alyx is good at flirting)

 **5\. "You don't have to be alone."**  (one shot drabble, prompt response. Alphinaud's drunk wisdom. Ship referenced/light angst implied)

 **6\. "I'm here."**  (one shot drabble, prompt response. Hurt/comfort, light angst and feels, character exploration)

 **7\. Communications** (Extremely dialogue heavy, light angst. Stormblood spoilers)

 **8.** **A World Apart** (Big time angst and feels on the Steppe. Features Hien, Lyse, mild use of flashbacks. Stormblood spoilers)

 **9\. Waiting**  (Sappy romance, WoL angst. Stormblood spoilers and blatant use of in-game dialogue)

 **10\. Agony, Relief**  (NSFW! Reunion. Stormblood spoilers)

 **11\. Dawn** (NSFWish. Mild smut. Very short drabble complete with Ala Mhigo feelings)

 **12\. Expectations** (Aymeric POV. Reflection on first meeting and beyond. Not fluff exactly but not angst either)

 **13\. Paperwork** (EXTREMELY NSFW, this is gratuitous office fucking, nothing mild about it, light dom/sub, Halone help me)

 **14\. Yours,** (originally posted on its own. Aymeric POV, early relationship. Thematically significant with no real warnings other than feels and vaguely referenced sex)

 **15\. Titles** (originally posted on its own. Aymeric POV. Thematically significant and sexier than the other one, but not smutty per se. Vulnerability/control/power dynamics)

 **16\. Polyglot** (a very short and mildly spicy drabble re: communication without words)

 **17\. Home** (slow burny angst and feels circa 3.4, pre relationship)

 **18. In Anticipation,** (pre relationship, pining, loosely referenced solo-play/sex)

 **19. "Don't Leave."** (prompt response drabble, hopeful angst & character exploration)

 **20. Curious** (Aymeric POV, pre relationship, here there be Haurchefant feels)

 **21\. Alive** (4.0, hurt/comfort, NSFWish)

 **22\. A Little Less Afraid** (Character exploration/development, Important Feelings, hurt/comfort)

 **23\. Apologies** (pre-relationship, right after the end of 3.0. Angst, hurt/comfort, bonus important Alphinaud friendship development)


	2. The Wine Cellar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyx and Aymeric go downstairs to retrieve another bottle of wine.
> 
> (Somewhere between 3.4 and 3.5)

"Mind your step. The stairs are--"

Uneven, she discovered immediately as her usually impeccable balance failed her. With a less than dignified yelp Alyx stumbled and fell what felt like an impossibly long way, her foot landing unsteadily as she tried to catch herself two steps down. He turned and caught her instead, and then suddenly she was in his arms, pressed against his chest and grasping the front of his coat. _Just like a gods-damned romance novel_ , she thought, mortified.

"Are you all right?" He asked her, prompting her to look up at him which she then decided was a horrible mistake. Aymeric smiled and her heart hammered in her chest.

"Yes," she said, barely, having trouble gathering the breath to produce sound. "Just embarrassed you had to see that."

The air in the cellar was so still and quiet she was convinced he could hear her heart, or perhaps feel it through the layers of wool and silk and whatever else. It was dark and cool, the change in temperature a shock to her skin--she blessed the darkness for hiding how flushed she was. The rush of adrenaline from the misstep faded and now all she could feel was how close they were; they were so _close_ and all she could think about was how good he smelled, how perfect the shape of his lips was when he spoke.

"I shan't tell a soul," he said, still smiling. She let out what felt like a laugh, though she was no longer sure she fully controlled what was coming out of her mouth.

"Good," she looked down at her hands where they remained at his chest and neither of them moved for what felt like eternity. Absent-mindedly-- _nervously?_ \--she bit the inside of her lip and looked back up.

She swallowed hard and felt his arms around her tighten ever so slightly. Even in the scarce lamplight his eyes were almost impossibly blue, and she couldn't help but notice his gaze flitting away from her own as they stood in silence, just breathing. He was looking at her mouth, she realized hazily, and the feeling it gave her made her want to run away, to escape the manor into the snow. She wanted to run and run until her legs collapsed beneath her; she was afraid of the way she felt, and she knew her hands would be shaking if not for their anchor at the front of his clothes.

After nearly a _year_ of wondering, of denial, of frustration, here they were: mere ilms apart, utterly alone, both emboldened yet vulnerable in one anothers' arms. This is exactly the sort of thing she had hoped--though not admitted to have hoped--to happen tonight, or any night prior. This is what she wanted. If this is what she wanted, she wondered desperately, why did it feel so terrifying? Nevertheless, she had drawn ever closer to him, her heart aching excitedly and her body moving as if on its own subtle accord. She was closer to the point where their foreheads were nearly touching, and when she saw his eyes close and felt his grip tighten again she cursed the Twelve because _this is it, this is happening._ He kissed her, gently, and at the touch of his lips her very blood seemed to sing in her veins, as if her entire being was screaming _finally_. Her eyes fluttered closed as she kissed him back, her steadfast uncertainty forcing her to such tenderness she barely moved.

And then suddenly he broke away, leaving her completely stunned. His eyes were wild with something that almost looked like panic.

"Forgive me," he stammered, pulling back slightly. His breath caught. "I..."

For the moment, her fear was gone, and she pulled at his collar to bring his lips back to hers. She sensed his initial surprise, and perhaps some hint of an inner battle similar to her own; perhaps he had been fighting just as long as she had. Though well fought, this fight was over, and she breathed deep the scent of him, consumed by his touch. His apprehension dispelled and his wordless question answered, he kissed her back with a new intensity, tilting her head back with his hand. She sighed into his mouth at the touch of his fingers in her hair, dizzy from his warmth and the taste of wine on his lips. How peculiar it was to feel so at peace and so restless and alive all at once, how wonderful it was to feel so weightless and yet crushed from all sides--neither drowning nor flying felt like this, but both seemed close. She felt her whole body was made entirely of heat and light and the feeling of his mouth on hers.

After a time they drew apart again, just barely, ragged breath mingling in the dark stillness.

"My dearest one," he finally said, his voice a husky murmur, "Long have I wanted to do that." The sound of his words made her ache and struggle again not to tremble.

"I hope it lived up to the expectation," was all she could say, which wasn't what she meant to say--what she _meant_ to say was _"Seven Hells, me too,"_ though as per usual humor gave her a shroud to hide beneath. She got the sense that he understood, however, as soon as she looked back into his eyes.

"How much time have we wasted in suffering, I wonder?"

"It feels like forever," she admitted, her voice quiet and breathless. It did. It felt like an eternity of that rushing feeling in her chest when he smiled at her, when he said her name--an eternity of cracks forming in the walls she had worked so hard to build. It felt like a whole lifetime of frustrated tears upon waking from dreams, a whole lifetime of telling herself "no" and struggling to listen. It truly felt like forever that she had been in love with him and refused to admit it.

He bent to kiss her again and she wound her arms around his neck to pull him closer, kissing him back harder than before, trying to tell him just how long it had been. She wanted to tell him everything, everything she never had, everything she was not yet sure she could. She shifted her weight to gain better footing and then gasped as she felt a sharp pain shooting up the side of her leg. She remembered with annoyance that she had just tripped down the stairs and, despite being caught, had apparently rolled her ankle when she landed. She drew away and looked down, sucking the air in through her teeth.

"That was not merely an elaborate scheme to fall into your arms," she said with a wince, "I think I've actually managed to hurt myself."

Aymeric chuckled. He looked up and reached for a bottle of wine on the shelf above her head.

"Indeed," he said, handing it to her. "Let us then adjourn to more comfortable surroundings."

She may as well have not had legs at all when he looked at her like that, she thought, and laughed in surprise when in one swift motion he scooped her up into his arms.

She couldn't help but shake her head as he effortlessly ascended the stairs out of the dark, for there she was, completely helpless and being carried bridal-style out of the wine cellar just like a _gods-damned romance novel_. He paused momentarily halfway through the door to kiss her again and she decided that perhaps playing the part of the damsel in distress may not be so bad, at least for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, some silliness. Challenging myself to write something lighthearted. There may be additional pieces from/related to this particular night at Borel Manor added eventually 8)


	3. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from "The Wine Cellar."

Aymeric said he would fetch her some ice, and she begged him not to. She just needed to stay off it for a while, she argued, probably against her better judgement, but she didn’t want him to leave the room. Part of her felt as though if he left the room he’d vanish completely, that the room itself would vanish completely, that she’d wake up in the Rising Stones, and that she’d find Alphinaud sighing with relief at her bedside because her fever had finally broken. _"You were talking in your sleep,"_ he'd say, and she would wonder desperately about what--even though she knew full well she'd never live this down, not in a thousand years.

She sat down on the sofa in front of the fire as he uncorked the bottle of wine they had brought back from the cellar, feeling both alert and delirious. Aymeric said nothing, but never stopped smiling as he poured them each a glass.

Alyx felt the weight of the silence and drank deeply before speaking: "I appreciate the assist," she said.

He chuckled. "Think nothing of it. I shall admit I quite appreciate the opportunity to come to _your_ rescue for once."

"Then I shall make a point to fall down the stairs in your presence more often," she replied, and reached for her foot. Whether or not she iced her ankle she wanted to assess the damage, if there was any to be found. She bent down, but was once again surprised by Aymeric's quickness.

"Allow me," he sank to one knee in front of her and held her foot in his hands, working at the laces. _New boots_ , she thought with an inward sigh, _no wonder I tripped_. She could tell that her ankle had begun to swell a bit, for removing the tight leather confines was a noticeable relief.

"Thank you," she said, took a sip of wine and then nearly choked when she felt his hands lightly on her leg. He looked up at her briefly through heavy lashes before returning his attention to the tall stockings she wore to avoid the cold under her dress. He slipped his fingertips under the hem and very slowly rolled the feather-soft fabric down over her knee, and despite the warmth of the room she shivered, her whole body tingling at his touch.

 _He's trying to kill me,_ she thought.

She thought she might actually die right there in front of him: Hydaelyn's chosen hero, steadfast defender of Eorzea, brought down by a sexual tension-induced heart attack.

 _Not the worst way to go,_ she admitted, and briefly attempted to think of other less titillating causes of death to distract from the feeling of his hands on her bare skin. Failing miserably, she merely watched him, rapt, and wished more than anything she could cross her legs to stifle the growing ache she had been trying to ignore all evening. Silently she breathed as he finally pulled the stocking away, cradling her calf in one hand and her heel in the other, and then ceased breathing entirely when he bent to kiss her ankle. Her eyes closed, and she welcomed death if this is what it felt like: the warm splash of his breath, his lips ghosting along the inside of her leg, his thumb caressing the bridge of--

She gasped sharply and jerked away from his hand, nearly kicking him in the face. He dodged the surprise attack with a catlike alertness, staring at her with startled eyes.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, a bit more shrill than she would have hoped, "I'm extremely ticklish."

There was a beat of silence and then he laughed, heartily, perhaps partially with relief. She collapsed into her own lap and covered her face in her hands.

"Duly noted," he finally said through his laughter, carefully letting her foot down onto the floor. She swore she saw tears in his eyes; despite her embarrassment she was very pleased to have made him laugh so hard.

"Please," she sighed, "Only use this knowledge for good."

He shook his head.

"Impossible," he said, "I have already begun drafting a missive to each and every one of your enemies regarding your weaknesses. This is _far_ too important to leave out."

"They will be so pleased. Does this missive also include uneven steps in wine cellars?"

"It does, in fact."

She had regained her composure, for all it was worth, and could only look at him: facing him as he knelt on the floor gave her the unusual opportunity to see him at the same eye level, and she wondered how anybody could possibly be so perfect as he appeared before her. Her heart swelled and ached and although nervousness still stirred beneath the surface, all she wanted was to be in his arms again. It was as if she had begun to crave the feeling of perceived danger her mind had invented to protect her; she needed it, she needed _him_ , knowing that despite her fight-or-flight instincts this was the safest she'd ever felt in her life. Without realizing it she had inched closer, now at the edge of her seat; she felt his hands come to rest on her thighs and her whole body lit up again.

"And what about my single greatest weakness?" She asked, looking down at his hands and then back into the paralyzing blue of his eyes. "Ser Aymeric de Borel?"

"In the interest of self preservation, I planned to omit that particular detail."

In any other mood, she would have considered the more serious implications of such a joke, but allowed herself the opportunity to simply smile.

"Clever," she whispered, and brought his face to hers. She kissed him and once again tried to speak without words; she showed him her weakness, caressing his jaw with her thumbs as he leaned in to her. He spoke in return, wordlessly, saying everything with the light and questioning touch of his tongue against hers, with his hands smoothing up to rest at her hips. She curled her bare leg around the back of his own and he pulled her closer in response, making her breath catch and a noise of surrender escape unbidden from her throat.

For all of their countless conversations, this was finally true communication--how much time had they spent talking, how many words had they shared without being able to truly _speak?_ How long had he been aching to tell her the things he told her now?

For now, he told her his own weakness, and she knew she understood: it was her, it had always been her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to everyone who's ever had a sexy moment ruined by ticklish feet (yours or your partner's). The struggle is real. Also, I am in too deep, these fools are going to be the death of me.


	4. All the Time in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of morning after uncertainty and sexy fluff featuring my assumption that every single room in Borel Manor has a fireplace.

Aymeric woke alone, though surprisingly warm. In the first instant of sleep addled confusion, he reached out to touch the blankets beside him as the previous night came slowly back into focus. When his hands found nothing, his confusion turned to panic: Alyx was gone. His eyes snapped open and he could see only the emptiness of his bed beside him as his mind raced. She's gone, she _left_ \--she left and she regrets what happened and _Fury take him for a fool._ His hand made a fist in the blankets and he cursed under his breath, inhaling the lingering scent of her on the pillows, a creeping despair filling his chest with lead. He grappled with his thoughts until he smelled something else, too. Wood smoke?

He sat up halfway, realizing the fire in the hearth was lit, and felt his heart swell with relief at the sight of the figure in front of it.

Alyx had her back to him, seated on the rug. She was very still, her back straight, the rich copper of her hair still tousled from sleep. Her shoulders were ensconced in a blanket wrapped around her, and in the otherwise dim room the firelight made her appear to glow around the edges.

He said her name; softly enough that he wasn’t sure if she heard him, for she didn’t move for a few seconds. Then her whole body rose and fell slowly as she took a deep breath, and looked over her shoulder at him from across the room.

“Good morning,” she said. The sound of her voice was a comfort in the wake of his uncertainty, and he let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

“Have you been awake long?” He looked to the window for some indication of the time, but the curtains were still mostly drawn. A pale sliver of light filtered through their opening.

She rose from the floor and turned to him. “No,” she shook her head, “It’s early still.” She crossed the room, stopping to light the half-melted candles on the bedside table with a touch of her fingertips. He wasn’t used to seeing such gentle applications of magic, and stared in fascination at her hand as she withdrew it. He reached out and took it in his own, suddenly feeling a need to touch her, to remind himself that all of this was happening, that she was here.

“Thank you for building a fire,” he said, not knowing what else to say. His throat felt dry and his mind empty save for the sight of her. He swung his legs out of bed to face her and she smiled, shrugging under the blanket she held around her with her other hand.

“You’re welcome. It helps me.”

“Wake up?”

“Meditate," she continued at his quizzical silence, “It's good for the aether."

"And your ankle?"

"Feels fine," she smirked a bit, and cocked her head to one side. "You didn't tell me you were a healer."

"One of my hidden talents, I suppose," he said.

The lead in his chest had given way to a strange and thrilling emptiness not unlike hunger, and he found it difficult to keep his wit when she met his gaze. Her eyes were bright and mischievous and though he was not sure how he could have ever thought she'd left, her closeness was pleasantly agonizing.

She had taken the hand that previously held hers, lifting it to her lips to kiss his knuckles, his fingertips, her breath warm and feather soft. When she spoke again he felt her words burn in the pit of his stomach:

"Are there any others I should know about?"

Did she know what she was doing to him? She _must_ know, he thought, desperately, bewitched.

He relinquished control of his hand to bring her closer, and sensed the slightest hitch in her breath. Though she still held fast to the blanket around her it had drooped well below her collarbone; his eyes followed the chain around her neck to the stone she wore upon it. It was dark against the creamy softness of the skin he had just so very recently and only _barely_ become acquainted with, the skin that seemed to radiate heat as if she were an ember plucked from the hearth. It was skin he wanted cover with his hands and his mouth until he knew absolutely every ilm of her, until he lacked the strength to do anything else.

How well they had come to know each other, he thought, and yet not nearly well enough: it almost felt as though he was meeting her for the first time, that she was a strange and powerful mystery all over again. She looked into his eyes again as thoughts of the previous night came unbidden to his mind, but he remained thoroughly captivated by now--for now, _now_ there was no more hesitation, no nervousness: there was only _her,_ and in this warm and quiet morning she was all that existed. He felt in this moment that time had stopped, that he had all the time in the world, and he planned to take it--for here in this moment he was embracing her at the edge of his bed, speaking against her parted lips as he drew the blanket away:

"We shall see," he said, and she smiled as he kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has been kicking around as a draft for ages, long before the other two. Happy Stormblood Eve! Thanks for reading & your feedback, know that you're always welcome to come yell at/with me on Tumblr (I like yelling, especially about these two).


	5. "You Don't Have to Be Alone"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the fire at the Rising Stones.

“News from Ishgard?”

The voice was Alphinaud’s. Sometimes lately he would say things and she wouldn’t immediately recognize him; now was one of those times, though it was only due to the depth of her concentration rather than his aging voice. She looked up from the letter to where he sat.

“News and greetings,” she said, “Ser Aymeric sends his extremely wordy regards, as usual.” 

He chuckled and sipped his wine. “I would expect nothing less,” he said, “I’m sure my sister is relieved to have you around to translate for him.” 

Alyx laughed as she thought of Alisaie’s frustration, realizing the younger woman may be the only person she knew _more_ impatient than she was. Her eyes returned to the loopy script in her hands as she reread several sentences. A few moments of quiet passed, silence if not for the crackling of the hearth and the muffled voices from the rooms beyond.

“You miss him.”

She looked up at Alphinaud again in surprise. There were very few secrets between them at this point, but there was plenty they never gave words to. She smiled and re-folded the letter, looking away from him again.

“How did you know?” 

“My friend, you wound me,” he sighed, and shook his head, “How could I not?”

She stood and crossed to the fire, staring into it with her arms crossed. She took a breath. 

“I do,” she finally said, not taking her eyes away from the flames. It felt strange to admit out loud, almost as if she hadn’t accepted it until she said the words. _A common theme_ , she thought wryly, thinking of other confessions she’d made in similarly quiet rooms with fireplaces. She fingered the paper in her hand before tossing it gently into the fire. “However,” she began again, watching it burn, “The Warrior of Light has more important things to do than pine after an absent lover.”

“What about Alyx?” 

She looked back at him again. He had a funny look about him: eyebrow raised, the faintest smile. “What _about_ Alyx?” She repeated, squinting at him, and reached for her own glass.

“What I mean to ask is…what I mean to _say_ , is, rather,” he fumbled slightly, “Do not forget that you are both. One does not negate the other.”

“And?”

“You don’t have to be alone. And you can miss whoever you want to.” 

“How opinionated you are when you drink!” she observed with a smirk, “I can’t decide if I like it or not.”

Alphinaud chuckled and rose to his feet. “I am merely stating the facts,” he said with a shrug, and finished his wine. “Do with them as you will.” 

Alyx watched him walk away before turning back to the hearth where she stared again for several minutes, chewing the inside of her lip in thought. At last her reverie broke and she returned to the table nearby where she sat, tore a blank page from her journal and began to write a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For calming sentence prompt "You don't have to be alone"


	6. "I'm Here."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the need to protect and be protected.

There are some scars she can only see in the dark, some scars she can only see with her eyes closed. She can feel them when she feels nothing else, when she’s dead to the world—for in sleep she is truly unguarded and alone. The wounds prickle and sting and ache and she can taste blood and saltwater and hot spiced wine all at once. She relives each and every hurt: her arms are twisted behind her back as she’s dragged into the banquet hall; she hears earsplitting and distorted voices come from the mouths they have overtaken. She chokes when she feels fiery chains around her throat, when she sees thin lips smirk. She struggles, but the well of her aether is dry and the land is dead beneath her. The wounds are eternal but also fresh in the dark, and the scars come to the surface, the pain leaving her paralyzed.

Paralyzed until, sometimes, the spell is broken by soothing words and a warm hand. She inhales sharply, her lungs finally free, and opens her damp eyes to a different darkness: a soft and safe darkness in which she is not unguarded. This darkness is sanctuary, its walls built of his voice. At his touch the scars fade again from her skin and she finds peace in his deep and even breath. “I’m here,” he tells her, and it’s all she needs, for with this her wards are rebuilt and her wounds are once again a distant memory.

She can see in the dark, and sometimes she can see the scars that are not her own. In the quiet darkness she builds her own walls to offer him shelter, to gather him back inside when he is caught out in the cold alone. She cannot recognize every wound, but knows a few–she knows the bitter despair, the fear, the memories of the blades and the words that poisoned them. She knows when these old pains return, as they often do, and she guides him to safety with her hands. She smooths his sweaty hair from his brow as he returns to her, as the scars loosen their grip. “I’m here,” she says, softly, at times near inaudibly, but he can hear it. He breathes freely, and they renew their nightly vigil, no longer unguarded nor alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calming sentence prompt "I'm here."


	7. Communications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation spanning malms. 
> 
> 4.0 MSQ spoilers.

"Lieutenant Vance!"

Alyx turned around to see a Temple Knight she didn't recognize jogging toward her, scattering several people between them in the process. The Castrum was buzzing with activity and new faces from the Reach, and she had only managed to escape the chaos for a blessed several minutes before the knight appeared. The look on his face gave her a distinct feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, for it was an expression that denoted important and urgent news--all of which had been very, very bad in the last several days.

She swallowed.

"What is it?" She asked, fearing the answer. 

"Lord Commander Aymeric wishes to speak with you at once, my lady."

The dread in her stomach changed to a collection of very confused butterflies.

"At once? Is he here?" A welcome surprise, if so, though having not looked in a mirror in days would have preferred some warning. She never used to care about him seeing her right off the battlefield, but it had been quite a while since he'd seen her at all.

The knight shook his head and held out his hand. "No, my lady," he held a white linkpearl in his armored fingers, "The Garleans seem to have ceased jamming our communications for the time being."

She took the pearl from his hand and thanked him, ducking around the corner to find some quiet behind the stable. She held her hand up to her ear, hearing the subtle hint of static.

She cleared her throat. “Lord Commander?”

“Griffin’s Bane.” 

She smiled at the sound of his voice.

“So you’ve heard that one, have you?”

“Only quite recently," he replied. "I think it suits you.”

“I rather like it as well,” she said, and leaned back against the wall in the dark. "And it is very good to hear from you, though I am a bit nervous. A Temple Knight nearly trampled several people to get to me. I also cannot help but remember the only other time we've ever spoken over a linkpearl, Ishgard was in the process of being razed to the ground."

“Rest assured, I bear no ill news of my own, though I have received news of the attack on Rhalgr’s Reach.”

Her heart sank. Precisely the one thing she didn't want to talk about. She closed her eyes, feeling her pulse quicken at the thought.

“I trust your men have delivered a full report, then?”

“Indeed they have, thus the reason I would fain speak to you directly. Some of the details were...troubling.”

“If I can be candid with you, Aymeric…”

“Always.”

“The _whole bloody thing_  is troubling.”

He paused. "I know," he said, quieter than before. "A devastating blow for the Resistance and Alliance efforts alike, that is to say nothing of you and your fellow Scions.”

She tried to force the bitterness out of her voice. “Thankfully, Y’shtola and the other survivors are recovering well, albeit considerably shaken.”

“And what of you?”

“What of me?”

“The report I received said you were gravely wounded in your encounter with the Viceroy.”

“ _Gravely?_   Seven hells, that’s a bit dramatic."

"I am also told that you faced him alone."

"Did it at least include that I broke his sword?"

She thought she heard him exhale, and she wasn't sure if it was a laugh or a sharp sigh of frustration.

“Am I to believe the report to be exaggerated, or instead trust in my knowledge of your character?"

She frowned and gingerly touched a hand to her waist, feeling the bandages under her coat. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She knew exactly what it meant. He knew her too well. Being cagey was a waste of effort.

"It's all true," she admitted finally, prompted by his lack of response, "Though I still disagree with the word 'gravely'. The wounds missed any vital organs, and thanks to the quick work of a Serpent healer I didn't lose too much blood."

Aymeric said nothing, and she wondered if the connection had been broken.

"Are you still there?" She asked the quiet static.

"Yes," his tone was different. "Forgive me. I am merely very...relieved to hear your voice."

Her heart ached. "I'm sorry for being difficult," she said softly, "My pride hurts."

In his voice, she could tell that hundreds of malms away he was smiling. "Never apologize for being difficult," he said. "It is undoubtedly one of the reasons you are still alive."

"Try as I might, I do not think I can fight an entire empire with stubbornness alone."

"'Tis my hope you do not fight alone at all."

 _One way or another, I always do,_ Alyx thought. There was another brief silence between them.

"I..." she faltered, "I miss you."

She cursed herself immediately. That was not what she meant to say, what she wanted to say, but couldn't.

"And I you," he said in reply.

Her heart hammered. Why was it so hard to say out loud? Perhaps it was harder now, when she was far away; far enough that she had not the comfort of his presence to calm her. Peace was in short supply, and talking was beginning to hurt: she could taste the smoke and ash from the Reach with every breath.

...Perhaps it was harder now due to the noticeable lack of privacy. The Temple Knight who had brought her the linkpearl strode by with a sidelong glance in her direction, pretending to busy himself with a hanging chocobo saddle nearby. _Poor man probably thinks I'll steal it_ , she thought.

"Your man here is looking anxious, perhaps I should give you back to him?"

Aymeric chuckled. "I do not doubt it. I barely let him breathe a word of his report before I told him to find you."

She laughed and tried to ignore the pain that wracked through her chest and stomach.

"I'll contact you soon," she said, closing her eyes. "When I know what we're...what it is we plan to do from here."

"I look forward to it. In the meantime, please take some rest. I do not imagine you have slept in days."

"Your knowledge of my character serves you well again, Lord Commander," she said, approaching the knight with a wave of her hand.

Before she drew the pearl away from her ear she heard him say "You'll be in my thoughts, Griffin's Bane."

She returned his farewell reluctantly, clearing her throat as she returned communications to the rightful owner. She thanked the knight and heard him begin to speak as she turned away, looking out at the walls and towers of the Castrum, thinking instead of walls and towers far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a desire for Alyx to get called out for once again downplaying life threatening injuries, but then I made myself sad by accident. I've got a LOT of feelings about this MSQ and I am having trouble keeping up with them all x.x FYI: "Griffin's Bane" comes from a sidequest chain at Castrum Oriens that I very much recommend, even though sadly it is not a title you can actually obtain as a player. You all know by know how much I love titles, though.


	8. A World Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No matter how powerfully the body or mind may speak, they cannot drown out the heart. Where is he, the one your heart keens so loudly for?”

Alyx was drunk, and not happy drunk. She was tired, frustrated, restless drunk, the kind of drunk that had the potential to either get her into trouble or into brooding.

She should have been happy drunk, all things considered. She should have been riding high on her victory, on the glory of another new title she had earned for others instead of herself. She should have been all aglow from the excited and relieved faces of the Mol who fought bravely beside her, of Magnai’s smug disappointment, of the look on Hien’s face when he called her “magnificent” and “terrifying.” She should have been happy and honored to have been made a champion of yet another land and its people, so far away from home--that she had united and gained a fairly sized army that had pledged to deliver Hien his kingdom, to help deliver Doma freedom.

She should have been happy, but she was not. Rather than lift her up, the victory weighed heavy like an ill-fitting cloak around her shoulders, and made her retreat from the celebrations to find something to anchor and calm her among the vast darkness of the Steppe. She wandered out beyond the edge of the dim halo of light from the Mol encampment and its fires, far enough that the sounds of music and laughter were muffled by the wind. Her blood felt hot in her veins from drink but she shivered, crossing her arms tightly across her chest against the chill.

She breathed the brisk air deeply, smelling the dryness of the grass, and sat. Absently she reached under her unbuttoned collar to find the ring she wore on the chain around her neck and turned it over in her fingers, looking out at where the blanket of stars met the distant mountains. The ring was warm from her skin; she lightly brushed it over her lips, feeling the contours of the metal.

_“Come what may, my heart is yours.”_

She squeezed her eyes shut, reaching with everything she had to grasp the memories of Aymeric in Gridania, months ago, a _lifetime_ ago; she struggled to conjure the color of his eyes, the smell and sound of the heavy rain through the open window. Despite his encouraging her to tell him everything, she wished she had spent less time talking and more time listening, for the sound of his voice felt impossibly far away in her memory. She had told him about Gyr Abania, about Conrad, about how it felt to behold the statue at Rhalgr’s Reach for the first time—she told him about the resourcefulness and passion of the Resistance, and of the ferocity in the eyes of those who told her to leave them out of a revolution they wanted no part of. She told him, finally, about her fight with Zenos, how he toyed with her before cutting her down. She squeezed her arms around herself, around the scar that remained, trying to remember Aymeric’s touch; his lips and his hands were gentle and reverent and though they did naught to heal the pain, they helped to erase the humiliation she felt when she saw it.

 _“This is not a badge of victory,”_ she said, remembering Haurchefant’s words from years prior.

 _“Nor a badge of defeat,”_ Aymeric said as he looked up at her, _“It is a badge of survival.”_

How long had it been? How many times had she reread the same words over and over, how many times had she written her own? How many nights had she dreamt, and how many more had she wished to when she could not?

She closed her fingers around the ring and wondered how long it had been since he had put it in her hand, since he admitted he felt the need to make some kind of "grand romantic gesture"--since she kissed him at the airship landing, careless of anyone who might see. How long it had been since she left, like she had countless times before, but this time knowing it was different: this time it would be far further and for far more time, this time it was to cross an ocean, to fight a war on the other side of the world.

 _"My heart is yours,"_ he told her, otherwise at a loss for words (a rare occurrence in his case), and she believed him. She knew what it meant. She knew, at the time, and for a considerable time afterward, but now she couldn't help but question it. How far was too far away? How long until it was too long?

She inhaled sharply, a growing heat behind her eyes she did not want to feel. Part of her had the urge to stand up and run, to exhaust herself to the point of being unable to think anymore, unable to ask herself whether there had been anyone else in her absence, unable to wonder if that heart had changed. She wanted to do something to put an end to her uncertainty, to her pain--and if not put an end to it, at least allow her to sleep.

Alyx dropped her hands into the grass beside her and dug her fingers into the soil, pulling gently and clumsily at the aether, hoping the land could fill her up and make her feel less empty. The wind shifted around her and she thought she heard footsteps, but was not sure from which direction. She closed her eyes, and aether began to rush in her ears like running water.

“There you are!”

It was Hien.

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice and she realized that, alone and unarmed, she should probably be more aware of her surroundings. She said nothing but looked up, smiling tiredly, at first disappointed by her broken solitude but deciding he was a welcome presence and a fine distraction. He eased down onto the ground beside her with a tired sigh.

“You set out here as if on a mission! Looking for your nhaama?” He was drunk as well, and there was a subtle slur around the edge of his words.

“Ah, yes,” she said with a smirk, “No ethereal maidens to be found out here tonight, unfortunately.”

“A pity!” Hien laughed. “Though I’ll admit that has never been my type.”

“Nor mine.”

He leaned back on his hands. “And what sort of person is our khagan's chosen mate, if not an ethereal maiden of the mists?”

What sort of person, indeed. _Handsome, dark-haired revolutionary leaders_ , she almost said, and shook her head. She had stopped actively listening to the aether but now heard her own blood rushing in her ears. She kept her gaze fixed in front of her as the reckless drunkenness in her spoke: “Why? You interested?”

Silence. Her heart pounded. _Seven hells_ , she thought, _what is wrong with me?_ She looked at him without turning her head, knowing exactly what was wrong—she was sad, and frustrated, and just drunk enough to wonder about his strong and calloused hands on her skin, what sort of scars he had hidden under his clothes. In all this time she hadn't had time to consider whether or not the perceived tension between them was real or a fabrication of her mind for its own amusement, but in this moment she suddenly felt the need to know.

If the Doman lord was at all flustered by her question, he hid it well in the dark. “Curious,” he said simply. He took a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. “As admittedly intriguing I find the idea, I am yet sober enough to know it would not be wise.”

 _He’s right,_ she thought, and thanked the Twelve for his answer. She could not shut off her heart from her body, no matter how many times in her life she had wished otherwise. Even if she somehow could go through with it, without panicking and running away, Hien was a good man and a good friend and deserved more than her dishonesty.

“I respect your caution,” she said. Her voice felt hoarse. “And agree.”

He chuckled softly. “We are both of us exhausted, and drunk,” he continued, likely trying to further justify his previous statement, and their eyes met. “And you are in love with someone else.”

She said nothing, but her reaction betrayed her nonetheless. Hien raised an eyebrow, and reached out his hand to slip a finger under the chain around her neck.

“This ring is far too large for you,” he observed.

“Maybe. How do you know it’s not my father’s?” She challenged. Her head felt hot again. “Or…a friend’s? Fallen comrade’s?”

“I guessed,” he admitted, “Though I am correct, no?” He withdrew his hand, letting the chain back down where it fell against the skin of her collarbone. She shook her head and lay down, the ground surprisingly soft under her head.

“You are,” she sighed, closing her eyes. She heard him shift beside her and make a wordless sound of affirmation.

“That was not my only clue. No matter how powerfully the body or mind may speak, they cannot drown out the heart,” he said. “Where is he, the one your heart keens so loudly for?”

She opened her eyes again, looking up at the stars. Thousands of malms away, the stars were the same, though at this time likely hidden by the sun. _Or snowfall._

“A world apart,” she answered.

"I do not doubt it feels that way." He nodded slightly, lying back on his elbows to look up at the sky. "Though I wonder, does the world not seem to feel smaller the more of it you travel?"

After considering his words for a moment, she smiled. "I never thought of it that way," she murmured. The two of them were quiet for a while, though she was not sure for how long, sharing in a silent regard of the stars above. The sky stretched endlessly on, as seemingly limitless as the Steppe below--and yet, somehow, she thought, maybe it felt a bit smaller after all.

****

Some time later they returned to the camp, where the celebrations had all but faded in favor of sleep. Alyx found Lyse still awake, albeit barely, and encouraged her to bed; the two made for the tent they shared and Lyse flopped unceremoniously into her bedroll.

"Oh, I almost forgot," she yawned, "A _post moogle_ , of all things, showed up about an hour ago."

"What? _Here?"_

She shrugged. "That was my reaction. I know I had seen some in Kugane but all the way out here in the middle of nowhere? In _Othard?_ I had no idea. I guess they have their ways, right? Anyway, he had a letter for you. I took it, I didn't know where you were."

She handed over a somewhat bedraggled looking envelope and Alyx felt her heart nearly stop when she saw the seal. Her fingers trembled over the surface of the paper.

"Lyse, thank you...I..." She looked up, and found her companion already sound asleep. Alyx struggled to breathe evenly as she broke the wax and unfolded the paper, holding it closer to the dim light of the lamp. The letter was short, and written on paper lacking the official header; perhaps it was written in a hurry, or at home rather than his office. It had been so long--she was no longer sure _how_ long, but the letter felt like some sort of foreign treasure in her hands, familiar and yet as if it had been delivered from another reality. She drew a shuddering breath and furiously wiped at her eyes, careful not to dampen the paper.

_My dearest,_

_There are many things since you left for the East I have been careful not to give words to, lest they detract you from your duties. I could not bear the thought of increasing your already insurmountable burden. I hope that you are safe; I understand this is much to ask, but I beg you allow me this indulgence. I know you are doing extraordinary things, as is your wont, and how eagerly I await the opportunity to hear tell of them from you rather than fragments of rumors._

_I do not know when or how this letter will reach you, if at all. However, on nights such as this when sleep eludes me and there is no comfort to be found otherwise, I feel I can do naught else but write you to convey the depth of my affection, to at the very least put pen to what I so deeply long to look into your eyes and tell you myself: that I love you, with everything I am. Always._

_May the Fury guide and keep you, and deliver you home in victory._

_Aymeric_

Alyx reread the words over and over until they were unrecognizable, until his loopy script swam in her vision. There was no date, and though she was not sure if a date would have provided her with much in the way of useful context, it was context she craved--factual evidence, reassurance, knowledge of when he had thought to write it.

And yet, she realized, perhaps such context was meaningless; after all, the facts were there before her, written carefully and from the heart. Her lungs heavy and her limbs powerless, she collapsed into bed, at last giving in to her exhaustion, and she wept silently until her body had nothing more to give. When she finally fell asleep, she slept deeply, the letter still clutched in her hand: the small and fragile hope in the midst of her emptiness, evidence of truth in her uncertainty, her precious link to a world apart.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became longer than I expected. For a time I was wondering if I should break it up into multiple pieces but ultimately decided against it, it was important to me that all of these moments were together.


	9. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited until, as always, duty calls.

Blue.

It was blue that caught her eye, that drove her to distraction, and that overwhelmed her with emotion after barely recovering from the impact of actually seeing Ala Mhigo for the first time. It was dark, and thunder boomed overhead: Alyx had only arrived hours ago and had seen very little of the camp and of the fortress, but what she had seen was the color. The rich purple of the Resistance banners bathed in the reddish glow from the torches overhead, and everywhere she looked she saw a colored uniform: it was like the environment of Castrum Oriens multiplied twelvefold in yellows, reds, golds, silvers, greens. Even the sky held its own color when lit up by the occasional streak of lightning and the sight filled her with pride and anticipation of what was to come, of the realization that the end was so close.

Blue, though, was what she saw out of the corner of her eye, what caused her to freeze mid-sentence: the shocking blue of Aymeric's coat against all of the warm colors that surrounded him. Alyx's stomach did backflips as she watched him from afar, watched him greet and confer with several Temple Knights, watched him gesture with his hands in that way he always did when he talked.

 _He's here_ was all she could think, over and over, and knew that Alphinaud was probably rolling his eyes at her but she couldn't see anything else.

"Are you just going to stand there, then?" He asked, snapping her attention back.

"What?"

She looked back at the younger man who stood beside her, a peculiar little smile on his lips. She knew that smile meant he saw right through her, and that regardless of his heavy heart, he was amused to see her this way.

"Seven hells, go to him," said Alphinaud softly, "Lest this tension crack the very stone beneath us."

She set her hands into determined fists at her side and forced herself forward, crossing the camp toward the group of knights. She saw Lucia then as well, and their eyes met. The First Commander stood resplendent in silver and white and said nothing, but she smiled as Alyx approached. Aymeric asked her something and she didn't answer; prompted by her lack of response he turned to see the object of her attention.

When he looked at her she thought she might collapse. She watched his expression change in a fragment of a second, from surprise to a sort of joyous relief, and he smiled; he smiled and her heart broke into a thousand fluttering pieces.

She was surprised she had made it all the way there without being able to feel her legs. Alphinaud had come along with her, which she did not realize initially, but was glad for it: one of them needed to be able to make suitable small talk, and Alyx was sure if she opened her mouth she would only babble incoherently.

"At last the Scions have arrived," Aymeric said with a smile and her heart all but stopped at the sound of his voice, "Full glad am I to have you with us."

"We are glad as well," Alphinaud said, "Tis good to see you both."

 _And there's the small talk_ , she thought, almost with relief, for it gave her a chance to process the reality of Aymeric's proximity, that he was standing mere fulms away from her. Suddenly she was reminded of their first meeting, years ago, at Camp Dragonhead; when he and Alphinaud had spoken their pleasantries before turning his icy blue eyes on her, sizing her up, putting a face to all of the outlandish stories and rumors.

His voice brought her back into this moment. "Hilda and her watch will keep Ishgard safe in my absence," he said, and then turned to her. "You know I would not miss this for the world, my friend."

_Rhalgr take me._

"I must make my preparations for our next move," said Alphinaud, and looked back up at her. "I shall gather Lyse and the others."

"Alyx," Aymeric said. _Oh,_ how good it felt to hear him say her name. "A moment, if I may."

"Of course," she blurted.

She followed him away from the buzz of conversation, through the tense and excited chaos around them. He said nothing as they walked, eventually turning a corner under the shadow of an archway. Her mind raced: what would she even _say_ to him? What would he say to her? They hadn't actually spoken in months, had not seen nor touched one another in months--regardless of whatever words put to paper between them in that time, she felt a vague sense of panic in his presence. She worried her hands into the thick sash on the front of her coat to give them something to do other than shake as she walked, watching him as he stopped a few paces ahead of her. The wind howled beyond the walls around them but it was otherwise quiet; he looked about the area briefly

"Aymeric," she said finally, unable to stand the silence any longer. "I wanted to ask you..."

He turned back to her and without further warning crushed her in an embrace, knocking the air from her lungs with a kiss. Momentarily stunned, she found herself unable to move--her whole body suddenly felt as if it were exploding from the inside, heat and light barely contained by her skin and her clothes. When she regained control of herself she kissed him back fervently, intoxicated by the taste and scent of him, so familiar and yet so foreign after such time and distance apart; his mouth was warm and she felt tiny and helpless in his arms, a helplessness she had longed for every night since they parted. Unable to secure her footing she stumbled slightly backwards, and he caught the back of her head in his hand, saving her from stiking it against the stone wall as he pressed against her. When they finally drew apart her lips felt hot and bruised and burned when he spoke against them, his voice a low and breathless rumble in his throat:

"My apologies," he said, "What was it you wished to ask me?"

She could no longer remember what her initial question was, but felt as though whatever it had been it was answered already. She let out a weak semblance of a laugh, overwhelmed by happiness and disbelief.

"Is this a dream?" She could only whisper, and he smiled. "It feels like a dream."

"Does it?"

She reached up to hold his face in her hands as he pressed his forehead to hers, still catching his breath.

"You're here," she said, as if it were enough of an explanation. Her eyes burned.

"I am," his voice was quiet. "I have been waiting for you."

 _I have been waiting for you._ The words rang in her head over and over and she felt dazed, delusional, and so utterly relieved. It was as if every muscle in her body had been held tense for--days? months?--and now she was physically exhausted by the effort spent to hold everything together.

Her voice shook when she spoke again. "I...I'm sorry to have made you wait," she said, knowing immediately what an empty apology it was, that it would never make up for all of the time that had passed, never quell the nagging threads of guilt she felt pulling at her from all directions. She wasn't apologizing only to him, she was apologizing to everyone: to the Resistance, to the Alliance, to Krile....

_Krile._

He cradled her face in his hands and bent to speak against her forehead: "I would wait forever if it meant we could be here, even if only for this moment."

He _knew_ , he always knew--she had to leave again, she had to go throw herself into danger, into duty, into the very maw of the conflict because it was where she needed to be. It was where she belonged and yet some part of her knew she belonged only here right now: in his arms, shielded from the wind and the voices of their comrades below.

"I promise that we are almost done waiting," she said, surprised by the tone of her own voice. It sounded rough from overuse, from screaming, from breathing smoke and cold dry air. _That Krile is almost done waiting. That Ala Mhigo is almost done waiting._

He smiled ever so slightly, but his eyes were steely and dark. "I am here," he told her again. "And here I shall await your return, with the entire Eorzean Alliance, ready to liberate your homeland."

Her heart swelled and broke at his words and she buried her face in his chest, the tears she had been holding back for hours burning her cheeks. They stood silently for a few moments more, trying to expand the stolen time with sheer force of will, until she heard the wind whistle and carry familiar voices from far away--voices from those who needed her too.

She pulled away and looked back towards the camp, catching sight of Thancred in the ruddy shadows.

"I'll be back soon," Alyx said, and meant it, even though she had very little idea what she was leaving to to do. She didn't even know the full extent of the plan yet, but she knew that whatever it entailed that the goal was clear: to return. She had to. She always did.

And Aymeric knew. She parted from him and turned to leave, forcing herself to walk even though the wind blew back against her and her whole body cried out for her to turn back.

Aymeric waited until she was ahead of him to leave, abiding by old forces of habit, even though at this point and after waiting so long, the thought of secrecy was meaningless. Alyx rejoined her companions to discuss their next move, and although her heart was heavy at least now she knew with certainty where it was: it was here, waiting for her, and would only have to wait a little while longer.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been difficult for me to reconcile all of the intense feelings that came with this point in the game, for me and for Alyx, but here's a stab at it.


	10. Agony, Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few nights before the siege, Alyx and Aymeric find shelter from the storm. 
> 
> (NSFW)

“Having some tea with your birch syrup, I see?"

Aymeric looked up at the sound of her voice as she approached the table where he sat, shielded just barely from the wind howling over the Lochs below. He had a stack of papers in front of him-- _of course,_ Alyx thought--and a cup of what she guessed to be tea in his hand (or rather, the cloyingly sweet concoction he liked to call tea).

She hadn't seen him since she had first returned to Porta Praetoria after securing the Quarter, which had already been nearly a day ago. Krile was safe and Fordola was in custody, and the fortress and camp below had been buzzing with talk of how the Scion irregulars had accomplished their mission and paved the way to the main gates. The information Krile was able to offer from her captivity was invaluable, and it was safe to say they had dropped everything until she had delivered a full report (as full a report as she could muster, in her state).

Now, storm clouds had rolled in over the rapidly dimming horizon, inspiring her fellows to take some rest following their ordeal. Alyx had excitedly accepted the opportunity for a hot bath after returning covered in all manner of soot, blood, and what seemed to be oily residue from destroyed magitek engines--if not only to cleanse the filth of battle but to rinse the salty Loch water from her skin and hair. Her frenzied pursuit of a bath satisfied and clean clothes obtained, she had a new mission: finding the Lord Commander and interrupting whatever he was doing.

“All men should be allowed a single vice,” he said, smiling at her as she approached.

“Only one?”

“Perhaps two, in my case.”

He took another sip, never taking his eyes away from hers. She swallowed, realizing that the strong front she had built up to ambush him was splintering rapidly in his presence. She was still riding high on her victories but damn near infuriated with how quickly her feeling of invincibility wavered as she leaned against the table beside him. This felt familiar, somehow, almost as if they were back in Ishgard. She wondered how long it had been since she had ruthlessly distracted him from his work in his office, how long it had been since he had bent her over his desk and reduced her to a shaking, mewling mess-- _Too long_ , she decided quickly, squeezing her legs together. _Far too long._

“I wondered if I might interest you in something a little stronger," she said. He looked up at her, the tiniest hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.

“You certainly might.”

“Good,” she leaned closer to him. “For if I am made to spend just one more night without you in my bed, I may not live to see the dawn, much less a free Ala Mhigo.”

It was her intention to at least fluster him a _little_ bit--she could have sworn she saw an eyebrow twitch beneath his raven locks, but was disappointed that he had otherwise retained his composure. Aymeric put down his cup.

“Alas, and what a shame that would be. After all of this time and effort, only to perish on the eve of battle,” he looked at her in that sidelong way of his, that way that drove her insane. “Poetic justice, would you not agree? To be defeated by what you once admitted to be your greatest weakness.”

"A tragedy," she agreed flatly.

"Fear not, Warrior of Light," he said, "I shall see you live to fight another day if I have my way about it."

_Damn him._

"If I have my way--" she began, but was interrupted by the shuffling of boots and clinking of armor as several Temple Knights walked by. She had nearly forgotten her surroundings and exhaled a frustrated sigh. She watched the knights go by only to be replaced by a group of Resistance soldiers--Alyx decided a change of venue was in order and reached into her pocket where her fingers found the touch of metal. She placed a worn key onto the table in front of him, on top of the papers she had distracted him from. For a few seconds she said nothing, enjoying his inquisitive look.

"Come find me," she said. His long fingers closing around the key was the last thing she looked at before turning and walking away, vanishing into the rapidly increasing darkness. She felt the telltale hum of static in the air and smiled when she heard the rumble of thunder far away.

  
***

 

Earlier, Alyx had returned to Porta Praetoria mildly surprised but pleased to learn that she had her own quarters waiting for her--after a fashion, anyway, given the limited space. Apparently the idea had been Alphinaud's, driven by the logic that the rest of the Alliance leaders (save for Kan-e-Senna, who preferred to sleep under the stars when possible) had been enjoying the luxury of four walls for some time before they arrived.

Alyx was not sure she counted as an Alliance leader but was certainly not going to argue with the idea of sleeping in an actual bed, even if the sleep was likely to be fitful and short. It had been a long journey full of shoddy sleeping arrangements since she had last left the Reach, and the quiet warmth of the fortress' narrow hallways and chambers was a comfort.

The room itself had a single window that looked East to Ala Mhigo, which currently brooded darkly on the horizon under the occasional flash of lightning. She could barely make out the twinkling of the royal palace lights through the squall, and the sight filled her with a deep restlessness. She fidgeted with Aymeric's ring on the chain around her neck and paced back and forth as she listened to the rain.

The restlessness she felt at the thought of the impending battle and Ala Mhigo's liberation was only compounded by the thrilling, burning anxiousness she felt as the time ticked by, as she waited for Aymeric to come to the door. He had no idea which door fit the key in his possession, as was her intent--being around him again she found herself unable to resist old instincts, her desire to tease him, no matter how long it had been.

Besides, it shouldn't be that difficult. Knowing him, he would simply ask somebody which door was hers. It had gotten to a point where subtlety was irrelevant and his pragmatism would mean a quick end to his pursuit.

When she finally heard a single soft knock and then the turning of metal she laughed inwardly at how startled she was by the sound she had been expecting to hear for what felt like hours. She turned around as Aymeric entered the room.

“That was quick," Alyx said, but had no sense of how much time had passed. Long enough for the sun to have set completely, long enough for him to have changed his clothes; the sight of him made her heart pound so loudly the sound flooded her ears.

"I have always been gifted with a keen sense of direction," he said as he closed the door behind him. He turned the key in the lock with a heavy click and smiled at her.

"Sense of direction?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps it would be best to call it instinct."

Thunder rumbled outside and it felt surreal to comprehend what was happening, that the two of them were alone, finally, in this small quiet room in Gyr Abania. The air in the room was cool but she felt feverish again: his presence filled her with a sort of nervousness she craved, a wonderful, exciting unease.

He looked incredible, as always, of course, but there was something about right now: the way his jawline caught the dim lamplight, the way his shirt fit over his shoulders, the way the collar was unbuttoned. She stretched her fingers absently at her sides, longing to feel his skin, to curl and tangle in his hair. His eyes were so _blue_ , partially hidden under heavy lashes as he regarded her across the room with what she could only describe as hunger.

Alyx struggled to convince her legs to keep her upright, as if her bones had melted and vanished with his closeness. He crossed the room to meet her and lifted a hand to her face--though he barely touched her it was electrifying; his fingertips ghosted over her cheek and lifted her chin, his thumb lingering on her bottom lip as he spoke again:

“How much time do we have?”

It was a question she did not want to hear nor answer, but felt the weight of its necessity.

“I have tonight," she said, "Until dawn, I imagine.”

She smoothed her hands lightly up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, indescribably pleased that armor and heavy layers no longer impeded her touch. His free arm wrapped around her waist and drew her close, but very gently, almost as if with hesitation.

“As do I," he replied. "And that time is yours.”

“No, it’s _ours._ ”

He chuckled quietly.

“Better,” he agreed, and bent to kiss her, slowly, deeply, making her knees weak. He smoothed the hair out of her eyes as he drew away.

“We are close to the end now," he said quietly. "The goal is within reach. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“It still feels a world away.”

Alyx felt her heart jump into her throat at the truth of his words, realizing she felt exactly the same way but had not been able to express it. How hard they had both worked--how hard everyone had worked--for this moment to come, to be on the very doorstep of her goal, of the home she had never seen. She leaned into him slightly and took a deep breath.

“At least," she said softly, "After all of this time, _you_ no longer feel a world away." His arms tightened around her.

“Indeed," he agreed. For a moment he just held her in silence, and when he continued his voice was low: "I must admit that these last several days have been a challenge. As welcome distraction as it has been, the mere knowledge of your presence--knowing you are here and yet not with me has been agony.”

She felt the last word in the pit of her stomach, husky and dark with emotion and with need. _Agony indeed_. She rose to the tips of her toes to brush her lips to his, anchoring her hands in the fabric of the front of his shirt as she convinced her lungs to give her speech.

“I know it’s not over yet," she said. "I know there is still so much more to do but I…." her voice caught in her throat and she swallowed before continuing. "I can't wait anymore. I had to be with you, even if only for a little while."

"No more waiting, then," he murmured, barely completing the sentence before she was kissing him again--and then all she knew was his mouth on hers, his arms around her, and the aching, dizzying heat that consumed her. She felt completely weak, overwhelmed with need to fill the emptiness that months and thousands of malms had dug into her. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him as close as she could, cursing the thin layers of fabric that separated them.

Wordlessly she begged him to give her peace, to make her complete again, and she knew she could feel him asking the same of her. There was both anticipation and relief in the way he kissed her, in the way his hands explored her again beneath her clothes; anticipation of her skin against his, of the blissful grip of her body, yet relief at her presence, at her safety, her very existence.

 _He should know better than to worry,_ she thought, but knew he had--just as she had spent frustrated and uncertain hours wondering if his feelings had changed, if things could ever be like they were before an ocean separated them for so long. It was not just his affections that threatened her, it was his safety--in spite of herself she longed to be at his side just as much out of a need to keep him safe as anything else.

She would remind herself that it was ridiculous, that he's more than capable of taking care of himself, all the while still feeling the desire to protect him, as she always did. It had been like that way for as long as she could remember, even long before she loved him. She needed to protect him, if not for him than for her own sake, to ensure that the darkness following behind her had not yet reached him.

And it had not, for here he was, his hands everywhere as they shed the obstacles of cotton and leather: they burned her skin as he eagerly grasped at her hip bones, her breasts, the back of her neck. She pulled away the collar of his shirt and tasted the salt on his skin when she kissed his neck, and though it conjured memories of the sea she sighed and trembled at his touch, knowing it was the taste of his sweat as they embraced on solid ground.

She was giddy from the feeling of his breath against her ear, her collar bone, and his hands hooking under her thighs to lift her from her feet. She was so blissfully present in the moment, reduced only to her senses, nothing more than the feeling of his fingers gently pulling away her underclothes, nothing more than her own hands struggling with his belt as he bore her down onto the bed.

They may have been on solid ground and surrounded by ancient stone, but as soon as she felt the heat of his lips on the inside of her thighs, she was flying. When his tongue found her she arched her back and gasped his name--and, oh, how _good_ it felt coming out of her mouth the way it did. How good it felt to say it over and over again, to tremble as he coaxed her legs further apart, to be utterly helpless and yet somehow stronger than she had ever felt.

He knelt at the bedside and worshiped her in a language only she understood, the intensity of his prayer inspired by the way her whole body shook, at the way she moaned and curled her toes. She felt him hum with approval at her response, almost in a self-satisfied way, as if she was the only sound in the world he wanted to hear. Her own sensitivity surprised her: she found his hand and squeezed, eventually pulling him away when she felt herself get too close, when she needed him back.

He seemed puzzled; his eyes questioned her as she drew him close to kiss him, tasting herself on his lips.

"I missed you," Alyx said, and her voice felt hoarse. It didn't need to be said, but she still felt the urge to speak. He smiled and held her face in his hands as she continued: "So very much."

Aymeric knew, as he always did--he knew without the words, but hearing them emboldened him, reassured him, and he beheld her in the dim light, seeing her for everything she was. She was naked and flushed, her hair a halo of copper on the blankets--she was nothing if not completely exposed, bared completely in both body and soul, and despite the obvious vulnerability she felt a sense of security in that fact alone: sanctuary in his gaze, in the sound of his voice, in his hands caressing her as they tangled, smoothing over every bit of her he could reach. She grappled with the buttons of his shirt and encouraged him onto his back, nipping at his bottom lip as she climbed across his lap.

His breath caught in his throat at her touch when she freed him from his trousers, when she felt how warm and hard he was in her hands; his whole body stiffened and he swore under his breath at her firm and careful strokes, as she drew each breath from him one at a time. She continued that way for a while, enjoying the sounds she was getting him to make, but eventually succumbed to her all-consuming need to feel him inside of her. She felt delirious, hopelessly drunk when she finally guided him to her, the contact like an electric current through her bones. He leaned back to kiss her, to say her name into her mouth as she sank down onto his length, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

After such a long time her body protested slightly at the lack of opportunity to adjust, but she paid it no mind--as far as she was concerned pain could not exist, not here. She could have slowed down but didn't want to, for the feeling as he filled her was so _good_ she could have wept, could have nearly come undone from that alone. She felt him to her very toes, the rush of tingling warmth making her gasp curses as she labored to keep herself sane. They were still for a fragment of a moment, finally whole again, the last shred of distance between them traversed. She wanted to look him in the eyes but he had buried his face into the skin of her neck.

"By the Fury," Aymeric said in a breathless growl, "You feel..."

He lost the rest of his words in her movements; slow, careful, ilm by ilm. He barely moved save for his hands, grasping at her back and the nape of her neck, struggling to let her retain power, to set her own pace.

"What was that?" She murmured, teasingly, against the skin under his ear. He thrust up into her and she gasped.

 _"Divine,"_ he said, and the sound of his voice made her shiver. He grabbed her hips and pulled her to him tightly, until in one swift motion he was sheathed inside her completely.

Alyx swore in surprise, and laughed weakly--the sound surprised her even as it came out of her own mouth. Her thighs trembled and she found his gaze again, her hands tangling in his hair. She knew she probably looked half mad with the way she was smiling at him. If it was madness, it was not hers alone: Aymeric looked at her with a mischievous expression, icy eyes burning into hers. How _happy_ he looked, how unburdened--the worry he carried on his brow was gone, and he looked like a man without a single care but the one in his arms, the one making him suck his breath in through his teeth as she rolled her hips.

Through their heavy breathing she could hear the wind and the rain howl over the Lochs outside, powerless against the mountains and the fortress that shrouded them. Though this was a world she had only seen in her dreams, she felt she had been here many times; because far inside the confines of the stone she was in his arms again after countless nights alone, her thighs bruised by his fingertips, her bottom lip between his teeth as she rode him. He strained up to meet her, to match her pace as she braced her hand on the wall behind him--on the cool stone that confined and shielded them, that kept their storm safe from the one outside.

A storm of quickened and heavy breath, of hammering heartbeats, of hard and desperate kisses: this was the storm that raged within. When he finally usurped control, grabbing her roughly at the waist and flipping her down onto her back, she surrendered in delight. She hit the bed with a soft bounce and a gasp, thankful for the thickness of the walls as he returned to her, the depth of his reach making her cry out sharply. His hands found her wrists and pinned them down, lacing his fingers with hers--Alyx squirmed helplessly beneath him, a smile on her lips at the feeling of his tongue and his teeth on her neck, at the way he moved within her. She curled her legs around the back of his and yielded with abandon to the dark and thrilling timbre of his voice as he spoke against her skin:

_"You are mine."_

 

She could hear everything in those three words: lust, relief, astonishment, triumph. It was as if he was saying it to himself as much as he was to her, knowing they both needed to hear it, to _know_ it. It was as if he needed to say it to the very land beneath them, a new and still foreign land, an unfamiliar battlefield where they had reunited at last--a reminder, a promise.

A gasping moan was all she could give him in response, overcome with the weight of the words and of her own desire. Hearing it was a comfort and satisfaction deep in her bones, for the only thing she wanted in that moment, the one thing she truly needed to feel was that she was his and his alone. In this moment she was beholden to no nation, no war, no beings mortal nor divine; she was beholden only to this one man, the man she loved with every tired and aching piece of herself.

She breathed his name, barely able to speak through the blissful force of his movements. Her hands were now free and desperate, grasping whatever she could reach before she finally grabbed a fistful of his hair and looked into the intense blue of his eyes. She was lost, now and forever, in the way he looked at her: like he could see nothing else, like he recognized no other face but hers. She tried to tell him everything, everything she had not been able to in their time apart, all the things words on paper could never convey, all of the words she could never seem to write--his gaze was piercing and wild and she knew he understood.

"I'm yours," Alyx told him, over and over, against his lips, into his ear, until her voice was nothing more than breathless whimpers. There was to be no more waiting, not anymore, and she ceased any further attempt to stifle herself as he fucked her, hard and fast, his months of patience all but spent. She squeezed her eyes closed and gave herself completely to the heat that flooded her, to the tingling and the ache that had replaced her blood, and her entire existence beyond the reach of this bed was a distant dream. Her control was gone, as was all else: there was only the two of them, isolated, sealed off from all else--only skin and sweat and his ragged, carnal panting against her neck.

“Come with me,” he said—a plea, an order—his rhythm now hurried and desperate, _merciless_ , and she felt like her whole body was a bowstring about to snap. He hooked an arm under her knee and the resulting shift in angle made her see stars; every move he made, every meeting of his hip bones against her thighs was like an earthquake, deep and shattering, as if she was going to break into pieces.

He brought a hand to her face and kissed her hard and she could only cry out against his lips as all of her strings severed and burst, a few stray tears breaking free from her eyes. She gasped and sobbed as the release tore through her, and she clawed at the bed sheets with her free hand in a desperate attempt to anchor herself, to keep from splitting apart at the seams. Feeling her convulse around him he followed soon after, curses and praises mingling with her name as he surrendered to her at last, giving her all of the strength he had left.

The power was gone from the both of them, but so finally was the agony. Her breathing was heavy and broken and her muscles trembled and twitched as he thrust into her a last few tired and shaking times, collapsing under the weight of his relief. Alyx clung to him as they calmed, trying with all of her might to keep the moment from ending.

Aymeric clasped her in his arms and fell down beside her, pressing his sweaty forehead to hers. They lay tangled in blankets and in each other, the storm calmed, the night quiet once again. She was overwhelmed by the weightlessness she felt despite her fatigue from the trials of the preceding days, _months_ : every single moment of tension experienced in that time seemed to fade out of her with every breath she took.

All she could hear was the rain and his deep but quiet breath, and she opened her eyes to find his closed. Peace had come over his face at last almost as if he were sleeping, but she knew he wasn't: his hands could not yet be still, could not stop their gentle movements stroking her hair, smoothing lightly over the skin of her back.

She wasn't sure how long they laid there in silence, but it could have been hours or days and still never enough time. It had been long enough that the candles on the table had all but guttered out and the sheen of sweat on her skin had dried away, leaving her to pull the blankets up around them to counter any attempt of a chill to touch them. She was utterly dazed, but far too awake to fall asleep: she could only watch him, marveling at how relaxed he looked, and at how relaxed she felt. When Aymeric finally opened his eyes to look at her they were weary but happy, and when his hand happened upon the chain around her neck he smiled.

"This looks familiar," he said, turning the ring over between his fingers.

"Somebody gave it to me," she murmured with a grin she hid halfway in the pillow, "I haven't the foggiest recollection who."

"He must be a lucky man."

"Lucky? I'm not so sure. Brave, aye, and patient," she said, "Very patient."

"Lucky," he insisted. "Blessed."

She groaned. "Aymeric, _please."_

He laughed then, and the sound and the sight of it made her heart swell. _Gods_ , she loved to listen to him laugh. It was wonderful and infectious and she laughed with him before she grabbed his face and kissed him, her eyes burning. It was her only possible reaction: partially out of the still-overwhelming joy at his presence, and an attempt to physically process the heavy rush of emotion that seemed to crush her from all sides. Her whole body felt exhausted and alive and she could fathom nothing beyond his scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin beneath her hands. When she drew away her voice broke.

"I love you," she said, over and over, until she was out of breath, until he kissed her again, until she felt him tighten his arms around her. It felt difficult to say, difficult to shape the words with her lips, but as she did she felt the blood rush in her veins, as if every part of her needed it to be said. It was difficult to say as it always had been, but the relief of telling him after so long washed over her in a heavy wave, leaving her free, unburdened, at peace.

"And I love you," he told her, speaking against her forehead, his voice soft and dark. "Hopelessly and immeasurably so."

She smiled and nestled her face into the curve of his neck. "Nothing is hopeless."

"As you have proven to me time and time again."

He held her quietly for several long moments, listening to the rain. She finally felt now that she might fall asleep, but part of her didn't want to: she didn't want to sleep and miss any of this precious time, didn't want to close her eyes and not be able to see him there beside her. She did not want to close her eyes for the risk of opening them and finding it had all been a dream.

"Would you promise me something?" His voice was quiet.

Alyx looked up and met his gaze in questioning, attempting to gauge the seriousness of his request by his expression.

He continued, prompted by her reaction: "Knowing full well I am in poor position to ask anything of you, after all that has happened--"

"Don't be ridiculous," she countered softly. Despite the vague twinge of nervousness in her stomach she said, "Anything."

“Can you promise me that you will stay here tonight?”

“Of course," she laughed, "This is _my_ room, you know."

“That is not what I meant," Aymeric said, and paused. "I know you. I know that as soon as your mind has a free moment it will leave: it will return to your duty, to the challenges and the dangers yet to come. All I ask of you is that you remain here—let not your mind stray from this room where it is quiet and warm and the world cannot touch you.”

He was right. Sometimes she was still caught off guard by the way he could see right through her, see to the very truth of her.

He knew: she would lie there with him but be pulled in all directions by the forces beyond his reach. She would be there, in the warm dark of their sanctuary, but at the same time out in the wind and the rain, at the main gates of Ala Mhigo.

But she knew him, too: she knew it was a vice which plagued them both.

“Can you promise me the same?”

A tired smile came over his face.

"I promise," he said.

Alyx smiled back at him. “Then so do I.”

She would try, anyway.

They both would.

Aymeric kissed her, threading his fingers in her hair, and she shuddered and sighed against him as they embraced, as they eventually found one another again. In a bed made for sleepless nights on the eve of war they made love until neither of them could move, and neither could think of the violence and chaos of the world beyond their own warm and quiet darkness, nothing beyond their _own_ world as it was rebuilt at long last.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I about had a heart attack working up the courage to actually post this, mainly because I had been working on it for soooo long that deciding it was actually finished was scary, in a way. *exhales* aahhh so yes please do tell me what you think. I'm trying so hard to do the feelings justice, the sex feels easy by comparison (just like in....real life....:thinking emoji:) ANYWAY thank you for reading & for your feedback! Those of you who have been waiting for this and/or listening to me complain about writing for the last several weeks, you're the best, thank you.


	11. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short & mildly smutty drabble from Porta Praetoria. 
> 
> (NSFWish)

"Can you see out of the window from here?" He asked, his breath hot against the back of her neck.

 _Yes, actually,_ Alyx thought, realizing she was squinting: the angle of the sunrise bathed her face in golden light and warmed her eyelids when she closed them again. An affirmative "Mmhmm" was all she could muster for an answer, delirious from his tortuously slow and deliberate pace.

"Good," Aymeric said, and his hands tightened around her hips, making her breath catch again. Every deep and calculated thrust sent shockwaves to the end of her fingertips, and she reached back for his arm, his back, _anything_ she could grasp to anchor her as she lay on her side facing the sun.

She arched her back and a wordless whine escaped her, encouraging him, begging him, and she could tell his control was finally shaken. She smiled and gasped as his rhythm quickened, making her squirm desperately and turn her face into the pillow to stifle her moaned curses. He raised his hand to smooth over her breasts, her throat, coaxing her to come out of hiding.

"Open your eyes," he breathed in her ear, and she obeyed despite her mild confusion: she wasn't sure why he would bother to ask if she wasn't facing him, but she blinked into the light again nonetheless. The sun had shifted just barely through the open window, nestled momentarily behind a distant tower--she found his hand and gripped it hard as she felt herself break, felt blessed fiery release wash over her: the horizon became recognizable in the dawn's light, and she at last understood.

He wanted her to see Ala Mhigo.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.........I just really needed to get this idea out of my system and liked how it came out.


	12. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to sleep, Aymeric reflects.

"Speaking of reputations, yours towers over us all. Does it not?"

It was the very first thing he ever said to her, years ago, at Camp Dragonhead. It was the very first time he ever laid eyes on her, put a face to the name, in the warmth of the Intercessory and hidden from the bitter cold. 

"It does indeed, Lord Commander," Lucia agreed with him quietly, and in his memory her tone almost seemed teasing--surely she must have been amused to observe his reaction to meeting the object of his recent and utter distraction. He remembered, too, that his First Commander had recommended he rest after their journey, one fraught with a rather trying blizzard. When he refused, she smiled in that subtle and familiar way of hers--almost as if she had said it simply out of habit, despite knowing there was no possibility of his agreement. 

For how could he rest? They were finally going to meet the Warrior of Light herself, along with her companion and leader of the Crystal Braves, fellow Scion of the Seventh Dawn. His curiosity burned fiercely enough to make him forget his weariness, the peculiar anticipation to meet a person he felt he knew both everything and nothing about all at once. He felt as though he knew the Warrior of Light already simply through the many tales of her exploits, but the person who wore the title remained a mystery. The person was a woman of twenty-some summers from Ul'dah (with origins in Ala Mhigo, if certain rumors were true) named Alyx Vance, and of the woman herself, that was all he knew.

When Aymeric first saw her--saw _them_ , truly, but even while speaking to Alphinaud his attention was somewhat divided--he sought every detail he could, seeking reconciliation with the pieces of information he already had. She struck him as tall for a hyur woman, only a head or so shorter than he; taller than he expected, for some reason, despite the tendency of storytelling to make her seem larger than life. She stood before him like a defiant soldier: back straight, shoulders back, but with her arms crossed over her chest as she considered him with a decidedly skeptical and guarded look in her fierce green eyes. She was dressed in dark colors, standing as a stark contrast to the young Commander Levellieur all silver and white, though their skin shared a similar fair hue, and though he was not close enough to be certain he thought he saw a light dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks. 

Her hair had oft been referred to as "fiery red" but appeared closer to a dark shade of copper in the warm lamplight, and it was short, cropped just above her shoulders. It occurred to him that he had imagined her with long hair, though he wasn't sure if she had been explicitly described that way, or if it was just the vision his mind created whenever he heard about her. 

All he had to piece together among the stories, reports, and rumors was that she was a brave and cunning force of nature, an accomplished wielder of magicks with a knack for uniting and leading strangers. He had heard all of the stories, from multiple sources in multiple degrees of fantastical detail--stories that painted a picture of her walking through fire, challenging armies and Primals while bathed in light. She was sometimes described as beautiful, sometimes fearsome, but far more often described simply as "incredible," as if the tellers of the tales knew just how unbelievable they seemed.

And though he had yet to see her in action, nay, yet to even hear her _speak_ , he could agree with them, for there was something about her that seemed...incredible, even if he could not quite describe what. She stood in silence with her finely arched brows low in absolutely naked suspicion--without a single word she had already made it abundantly clear how little she trusted him, or even the _idea_ of him--but she exuded an air of quiet power, one that was strange and unfamiliar but utterly captivating. He had no doubt in his mind that though yet untested in his own eyes that she was something else entirely, and he knew as soon as he saw her that she was the only one who could help him, and the only one who could help Ishgard. 

She was likely his only hope. He wondered, however, how much convincing it would take.

Lord Haurchefant had assured him that both she and Commander Levellieur would be much obliged to meet with him, and it _seemed_ he was correct, as thus far the mood at Camp Dragonhead had been cordial and welcoming. What his friend had not assured him was whether or not they--that is to say, the Scions, the Crystal Braves, or even the Warrior of Light herself--would agree to Ishgard's terms and offer their aid. He hadn't even been able to assure him that the meeting would be anything more than a formality, but the way he waxed poetic about the woman who now stood before him led him to hope.

For of the many things Haurchefant would ever say about her, his emphasis remained (repeatedly and enthusiastically) that she was his beloved friend, generous and kind, with a steadfast determination to help those in need. He said that not only was she courageous and brilliant in combat but friendly, passionate, and devoted to Eorzea, and all of its people, including those she had never met--perhaps, even those who had not even truly called themselves Eorzeans for many years ("Too good to be true," Aymeric remembered thinking as he read the umpteenth letter). She wore the mantle of the Warrior of Light humbly, and amazed his fellow Ishgardian with her warmth on a regular basis. Truth be told, as their correspondence went on Aymeric had begun to wonder if his friend's opinions were blinded by something more than friendship--he eventually came to decide that perhaps 'colored' was a better term than 'blinded', for no matter the nature of his affections Haurchefant certainly saw the famous hero for who she was beyond the deeds that made her so. 

His duty as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and loyal son of Ishgard had brought him to the Warrior of Light, but it was truly Haurchefant who brought him to Alyx Vance. He cherished his friend's memory for manifold reasons, but this reason in particular stood out to him upon reflection of their first moments together. Aymeric knew that he would have surely met her one way or another, whether by pure necessity or the Fury's will alone, but he could not imagine entering into that first meeting without Haurchefant's enthusiastic and loving endorsement. 

It certainly gave him some comfort and reassurance under the harsh scrutiny of her gaze. First impressions were important--perhaps moreso to others than they were to Aymeric himself, but nevertheless arriving to bring grave news and to ask such a heavy favor warranted some degree of caution. After all, what prejudice or ire may have dwelt within her despite her apparent generosity, among any manner of more disagreeable tendencies Haurchefant did not warn him about (or ever see himself)? 

When he spoke again, he spoke frankly, for he knew not what else to say.

"I am not too proud to admit I have followed your activities with an interest bordering on fascination." 

(If it had been merely bordering on fascination before, by this point that border had certainly been traversed)

"Full glad was I to learn that you would be joining us," he continued. The word 'you' seemed to linger on his lips afterward, and he remembered how her expression changed. It was extremely subtle but he saw it nonetheless--the slight raising of the eyebrows, the nigh undetectable parting of her lips when she inhaled. The scarce hint of a smile touched her face and her eyes seemed to soften somewhat, though they held contact with his steadily, fearlessly, and the Warrior of Light replied,

"I certainly hope I live up to expectation, Ser Aymeric."

-

"I hope it lived up to the expectation," she said to him in a softer voice, years later, in the dark of his wine cellar. He felt the taste of wine and pure light as he held her in his arms, though this time her eyes were not fearless. They were bright and wide and caught the shadows in a way that seemed to only enhance their color as she looked upon him unguarded, with her lips curled so slightly and _Fury help him_ how he wanted to kiss them again, how he wanted never to stop. 

Expectation could have never truly prepared him for this, for after all of this time there she was, her cheeks flushed and her hand at his heart, the warmth of her body pressed against him. She seemed so small and yet she was the only thing that he could see, the only thing he could feel--she was all-consuming, as if he were drowning and being burned alive by her all at once. The defiant soldier was gone: she had finally stopped fighting, as had he, and now they stood struggling to breathe as if they had been running malms to find one another in this quiet warmth, in a moment in which they could finally be themselves. 

For regardless of any expectations he may have had, or even dared _dream_ to have, she was only herself in that moment. She was beautiful and fearsome all at once, just as she had been described by those who did not know her, though the words no longer meant the same thing in light of all he had seen. Over time he had collected fleeting glimpses of her, of who she truly was; although some were harder to see than others, there they were before him, and the way she looked at him made him feel both invincible and powerless. He knew it was a look she had given him before, though he had trouble placing exactly when or where--it was a look that showed him the person she was, free of any trappings of duty or identity invented by the world she fought for.

He had expected to be her ally. He had no qualms with confessing his optimism as he entered into that first meeting at Camp Dragonhead, foolhardy or no. He had expected to be impressed by her in battle, and he certainly was that and more: how vividly he remembered the first time he witnessed her conjure explosive fire from the very air around them, the first time she brought down blinding arcs of lightning from the sky to strike and shake the ground beneath their feet. The clarity in her eyes when she spoke as if in a trance, and the ephemeral flash of a predatory smile when a strike was true--these were perhaps things he did not expect, though in time he came to see her fight as a living paradox of calm and ferocity. 

He had not expected to come to quickly regard her among his dearest and closest friends, one whom he could trust absolutely and completely; one with whom he had shared pain and joy alike, and whose company he always enjoyed, even when he was certain he would have rather been alone. He had not expected to form so close a bond, on and off the battlefield, to be able to communicate without a word--to feel emboldened and safe at her side, as if he was always under her watchful and protective eye. He had not expected his heart to jump the way it did when he saw her come in to his office, he had not expected the particularly anxious swell of happiness he felt when he watched her fly through the cold air on dragonback, he had not expected to find himself thinking of her in his rare and precious moments of quietude. 

He had certainly not expected to fall in love with her.

For to love the Warrior of Light would be folly, a childish fairytale. How could one love a legend as she still lived and breathed, as she walked with divine blessing and changed the course of history? How could one love a symbol, an icon, beholden to none and destined for greatness, for destruction, or both? How could one love a monster, as she once called herself, a fiend who left a trail of ruin in her wake?

How could one indeed, and yet he did, but it was not only the Warrior of Light whose beauty bewitched him, with her smile and her laugh and the flash of mischief in her sage-colored eyes. It was not only the Warrior of Light whose presence he longed for through countless sleepless nights, whose voice ignited his blood and made him crave merely the faint touch of her hand in his. It was not the Warrior of Light he held in his arms in the close and quiet darkness of his wine cellar--nor was it the Warrior of Light who he took to his bed, who made him forget everything beyond the sound of her breath in his ear, the heat of her skin beneath his fingers. It was Alyx: the person, the woman, his steadfast ally and confidant, his friend.

And it was Alyx who slept beside him now, so much time later, beyond the reach of countless perils and after countless unexpected miracles. Dark lashes touched her cheeks beneath brows unencumbered by thought or worry, her face peaceful and soft. The freckles that scattered over the bridge of her nose were more prominent now than they had been in Coerthas after years being marked by the sun, and she now wore a scar over one fair cheek--a scar she gained in protecting Ishgard on the first of countless occasions. By now, her scars were many, many even more than when he first met her (oft he wondered how many scars she wore because of him, both because of what he had asked of her and what she had done for him without request). She breathed silently and deeply, and though she still wore the mantle, the title, the burden, it fit comfortably and weightlessly around her. Her tired and generous arms were folded beneath the pillow leaving one rounded shoulder visible above the blankets, the curve of her back bathed in moonlight filtering through the curtains. 

The woman who wore the title was a heavy sleeper, save for the nights when haunted by nightmares--the grim shadows of her life that seemed to ever multiply, and reach into her mind when she was at her most vulnerable. Somehow, however, she could sense when he was plagued by the same shadows, and would wake every time, no matter how deeply she had been sleeping. She was not only Alyx, she was the Warrior of Light, and the Warrior of Light was ready in the blink of an eye to fight off any demons she could, real or imagined. Aymeric often marveled at it, how small and soft she seemed and yet how perfectly and completely protected she made him feel: nothing could touch him when he was with her. Her presence was sanctuary, safe haven, awake or sleeping, armed or stripped completely bare.

Nobody knew her as he knew her, not exactly, and yet he too knew her the way the world knew her. He knew her as Eorzea's champion, just as well as he knew her as his friend and lover. He knew her as a hero, a leader of men, a sorceress capable of bending nature around them, just as he knew her as the companion with whom he could stay up an entire night talking about any and all manner of things, with whom he could confide his demons and dreams alike. He knew her as a woman both indestructible and utterly vulnerable, who feared nothing and everything. How baffling he found it, how much he felt he knew of her upon their first meeting, and what multitudes more he had learned since. How could he have expected to know her, to _truly_ know her--to a point at which he no longer wondered which of the two she was? 

For now he thought it foolish to wonder which of the two stirred at the touch of his lips against her forehead, which of the two reached out for him in her slumber. Foolish indeed to wonder whether it was Alyx or the Warrior of Light who he drew again into his arms, who murmured affectionately against his skin, whose mouth it was that made such tender noises just as easily as it shaped the incantations to rain all Seven Hells upon their enemies, whose hands--the hands that had killed men and gods alike--gently and clumsily found him within the shroud of blankets. Though he could feel the hardened muscles move beneath her skin the shoulders that held the weight of the world were soft in his hands, the contrast of which could perhaps cause some to question whether the two lives could truly be one and the same.

Aymeric knew now and full well they could be, and that they were. He knew he needed no longer question which of the two he met on that cold night in Coerthas, nor which of the two he held close on this night or any other night to come. He knew he needed not question which of the two calmed him finally into sleep with the warmth of her touch and the sound of her heartbeat, and he knew he needed not question which of the two he loved. For she was both, always; and he loved them both as they existed in one person, one beautiful, fearsome, and incredible being, truly beyond any and all expectation.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been wanting to write about the scene at Camp Dragonhead for a long time, and when I finally got around to it it became an essayish reflective feels fest and further exploration of identity/titles/WoL things/the progression of their friendship and I ain't even mad. I have been trying to write more Aymeric POV lately too, he's a fun challenge. As always let me know your thoughts, and thank you thank you for reading & your feedback. Y'all keep me going, honestly.


	13. Paperwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A welcome interruption.
> 
> This is porn, legit porn, don't even trip fam, this is 1000% gratuitous smut. Obviously NSFW.

It was incredible, Alyx mused, how quickly the tables could turn. Whatever illusion of power she brought with her into the Seat of the Lord Commander that evening had all but vanished, all faded away in mere moments: she had already lost the bout and was helpless in Aymeric's presence, under the sound of his voice, the feeling of his breath on her skin.

The confidence with which she had strode into the room so easily, so effortlessly, all velvet and leather and lace beneath, the spurs on the heels of her boots jingling softly as the heavy doors closed behind her; how swiftly it all dissipated, melted, fallen at her feet when he looked at her, when he spoke. How fearlessly she had approached him, her cheeks flushed from the cold and anticipation alike, dropping honeyed words into his ear beside him as he sat, hand clenched around a feathered quill, trying to retain control. How quickly she was overcome by his hands on hers, the heat of his body against her back.

Of course, she had no issue with admitting that it was her desired outcome--why else would she seek to wind him up so utterly if not her longing for his composure to break, for him to grab her around the waist and tear at the collar of her shirt, to bend her over the desk with one hand down the back of her smalls, making her shudder and dance on his fingers as he played her like a lute.

"I have work to do," he said in her ear, and she was not entirely certain he meant the work she had interrupted. His fingers made her squirm and gasp and struggle to keep quiet: the hour was quite late, but the Congregation never truly slept, not entirely.

"As do I," she replied, and labored to reach behind her back to touch him. Her brief success in blindly finding the front of his trousers inspired retaliation, and she whined--he pushed one, then two, of his long fingers inside her, making her legs shake and her whole body sing with satisfation. She arched her back, trying to thrust herself back against his hand, and he quickly drew it away.

She gasped in frustration and Aymeric chuckled.

"Hmm," he purred, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. She felt his hand return to just barely tease his fingertips along her slick entrance, and she choked back a moan, incensed and dizzy with need. She tried to wiggle closer, largely immobilized by his weight against her back and the solid wood of the desk at her hips, but he would only pull his hand away, returning with maddening slowness as he kissed her neck.

Alyx knew he wanted her to beg and at this point she was happy to do so.

"Gods damn it, Aymeric, _please_."

"Please what?" He asked against the back of her neck, and she trembled with desperation at the sound of his voice. He withdrew his hand from between her legs to smooth up the back of her thigh, squeezing into her flesh softly.

"Your wish is my command."

" _Fuck_ me," she groaned through gritted teeth, and felt him tighten his free arm around her at the sound of the words. He obliged her after fumbling briefly with his belt, spreading her legs roughly with his knee, and she could have cried out in rapture had they been in more private surroundings. Instead she choked out a gasp and heard him moan just barely as he took her in one swift motion, the force causing the wood to creak. Gods, he felt so hot and hard and made her feel so _full_ \--she could barely breathe, cursing over and over in strained whispers. The intensity and depth of the angle made her knees buckle and her mind a blank; she clawed at the desk, finding purchase in a handful of several papers which crumpled in her fingers.

_Oops,_ she thought with a completely unapologetic smile, and wondered if he noticed--he seemed quite preoccupied now, as was her intent, and he wasted no time: his pace was quick and rough and hard and the feeling of him within her consumed her senses. She had fallen down onto her elbows, held down by his hand on the small of her back, and she used what remaining balance she had to push back against him, arching her back, relishing the feeling of his hips crashing into her like waves. Aymeric lifted her from the desk and raised a hand to her throat, tilting her head back so he could nip at her ear before grabbing her chin to capture her mouth in a kiss. She caught sight of his icy eyes just barely before he buried his face in her hair, slipping two fingers into her mouth where she tasted herself. She closed her lips around them, sucking gently, and he growled against her, each thrust making her wonder if she would have bruises on her hip bones the next day.

The sounds of their barely muffled panting and the clap of skin seemed amplified by the stone walls around them--Alyx decided hazily that the room needed more tapestries or rugs to absorb the noise, squeezing her eyes shut and wishing more than anything she could scream out his name, scream out anything at all. Her knees buckled again when she came, hard, abruptly, and without meaning to she bit down on Aymeric's fingers to stifle herself. His hiss of pain and surprise became a breathless laugh and he pulled them away in favor of grasping a handful of her hair--gently, but the point was taken, and her whole body flooded with fire as she struggled and shook under the weight of her release.

Barely recovered, she gasped in surprise and stumbled when he pulled out of her and swiftly spun her around to face him. His eyes were bright and predatory with lust and she smirked up at him, half in a daze from her own pleasure, and he kissed her roughly, his tongue tangling with hers as he pulled her head back by her hair. Her hands found him and he cursed into her mouth at the contact--she struggled to push herself up so that she might wrap her legs around him, encourage him to continue, but instead he pulled her away from him to speak in a voice that shook her to her core:

"On your knees, eikon-slayer."

How he could speak so softly and still have so much power over her was a thought she regularly marveled at, and loved to ask herself again and again when he felt inspired to command her so; she licked her lips as she held his gaze, reaching to yank his trousers down farther to give her more access. She fell to her knees at his feet and took him in her mouth eagerly and without hesitation, sighing with truly carnal delight at the taste of him covered in her wetness. She grabbed at his hips for leverage and dug her fingernails lightly into the bare skin above the drooping edge of his trousers, making him groan and tighten his grip in her hair as he guided her rhythm.

She added a mirror to her list of additions to the office, for she had the distinct and sudden need to catch sight of herself in this position. The image of herself on her knees behind his desk as she finished him with her tongue and her lips with his hand in her hair made her wild, made her ache again between her legs where her body continued to throb and beg for him. She wanted him to see it too, wanted him to watch her serve him, to take him as he fucked the back of her throat, though she knew he was undoubtedly enjoying the view he had: his brows were knit with his last shred of control but he smiled when she looked up at him, smiled in a sort of bemused wolfish way he sometimes did, as if he didn't believe his eyes.

He did not take long; soon she felt his legs tense and his voice break and she moaned softly in approval as several hot jets of his seed filled her throat. Aymeric bent slightly to brace one hand on the desk behind her head, panting, riding out the final trembling thrusts he could muster as she swallowed, continuing to stroke lightly with one hand until he jerked away from her, until he couldn't bear it any longer. Her lips were swollen and slick from her work and they lingered, just barely, as she caught her breath, holding him in one hand as she smoothed over the sensitive skin below his hip bone with the other.

"Pardon the interruption," she finally said after a brief silence, her voice husky, and looked up at him.

_Oh_ , how she loved the look he gave her, the vaguely peaceful look of relief mingled with the hunger for more, the need to make her beg and submit and again and again.

"Granted," he replied, lightly holding her chin in one hand. His touch was like fire that penetrated her skin, made her shiver, made her lightheaded. She rose unsteadily to her feet, ignoring the complaints of her knees regarding the stone floor, and took his hand in her own. His eyes were mischievous, as if she had only just ignited his present need for her surrender.

"For now."

"For now?" She grinned with confidence and power slightly regained. "I _do_ hope you won't make me wait, Lord Commander."

Her lips were close enough to his to kiss him and she wanted to, yet wanted to tease him, wanting to make him chase her further. She was still catching her breath but still still wanting him, always--he grasped her wrist in his hand and pulled it away, pinning it behind her back with just enough force to make her knees weak again.

"Patience, my dearest," he said, "There is yet work to be done."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for this. I'm actually still screaming internally about the fact I even posted it. I won't lie to you, it took some liquid courage.


	14. Yours,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words written and words unspoken. Originally posted as a stand-alone piece. This is the "one that started it all" in a way, and means a whole lot to me.

"Yours."

It is the way she signs her letters, whether following sparse and coded secrets, or long and thoughtful accounts written in all-to-rare moments of respite. From the fireside, from inn rooms, the paper is always in various levels of wear after its journey, the ink always a slightly different shade. Sometimes dusty, sometimes sun-bleached, sometimes stained by rain or smoke, the carefully folded paper would arrive with an Immortal Flames seal in wax she likely warmed between her own fingertips. Each letter ends with “Yours,” and a letter A rather than her name.

The words preceding it he reads voraciously: fantastic tales that would be wholly unbelievable if told by anyone else, regardless of their detail. He covers wide distances, through his walls of stone and the bleak fog beyond them, carried by messages brief and long alike. Her handwriting is unrefined but legible, her style conversational to the point that he can sometimes hear her speaking, see her gesturing with one hand as she holds a goblet of wine in the other. 

There is freedom in her words, but weight as well. He can feel her tired smile, the callouses on her hands, the darkness following her close behind, the burden behind the pen strokes. And yet, there too he feels the blissful sting of the wind on his face while flying, and smell the smoke from the fire. He can hear the trees creak, feel the heat of the sun-baked sand under his boots. Through her words he is transported, or wills himself to be. She is somehow  _everywhere_ , while he is anchored in place–and he envies it, dreams about it, wants it for himself. He reads her letters as soon as he can touch them, the only interruption to break the repetition of his own burdens. He reads them again and again, and always puzzles over their final word.

 _“Yours.”_  

Aymeric laughs inwardly in spite of himself, but remains fixated on it all the same. The very concept is ridiculous, really: the word itself would suggest any sort of ownership or claim to a woman who is somehow more than a woman, a woman who is everywhere and everyone’s. Merely entertaining the idea that the word is anything more than a tender pleasantry at the end of a letter is not worth losing sleep over, but at the same time he knows her too well to assume she would not choose her words more carefully. She is honest, but she is guarded, because she has to be. She is more than the person writing the letters; she is a symbol, a rallying cry, a savior. She is a force of nature, a storm of aether made flesh, feared by many and beloved by more. She could never be truly “yours.”

And yet…

The word makes him think of the times when she is simply herself, times when she is just the woman who wears the title: the woman who is compassionate, and brave, and funny, with freckles on her shoulders and eyes the color of sage—the woman who is impatient, and stubborn, and proud, with a loud laugh and ticklish feet. It makes him think of the letters in which she tells him she will see him soon, for one reason or another, and of the stolen days or hours that follow, the days or hours that never seem to last more than moments. In these moments, she is herself and she is  _his,_  for the fleeting time in which she can be. He holds fast to her as tightly as one might grasp a flame in his bare hands, and though the heat burns him at last he can say “ _You are mine._ ” She is his, all distance that existed between them traversed in short breaths, in touch reverent and desperate.  He does not say the words, but he knows she can hear them. He can hear her, too, even when she doesn’t make a sound: he can hear it in every warm touch of her hand, in every fervent look into his eyes, in every sleepy smile at dawn. He clings to her as she unravels in his arms, all of her power surrendered, and though it is his name she speaks over and over, he knows he can hear her say  _“I am **yours**.“_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am doing the #FFXIVWrite2017 November prompt challenge on Tumblr, and so far it's been occupying a good amount of my writing energies and putting more than one unfinished chapter on hold temporarily. So in the meantime, here's a non-update-update where I finally add these two older pieces that were originally posted on their own (and still are). And hell, if you haven't read them yet, I guess it's new content to you anyway ;)


	15. Titles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love, identity, power dynamics, vulnerability, and the names that are not their names. Originally posted as a stand-alone piece. This ended up being the foundation, or catalyst, or both, for a lot of thematic stuff I continue to agonize over with these two and their relationship.

_"Lord Commander,"_  she says, and smirks. She's teasing him, as she often does, and no matter how well he knows her tricks he falls for them every time. The way she uses his titles make them sound like something else entirely, and the words cease to make sense. Titles of status, of authority, but over her? Meaningless, ultimately, and she knows it. He commands his army, he speaks to steer the direction of his nation and to influence its people; and there, outside of these walls, the titles find their meaning. But now he is here, beyond their reach, and she uses the title as if to challenge him. He accepts, as always, after enduring the heat of her gaze as long as he possibly can, struggling to resist until he is physically unable. He follows her into the dark, chasing a taunting and confident prey. His hands find her, and she makes noises that bewitch him, and she says it again--his name that is not his name.

She knows the chase is over but she sets his blood on fire with the words and he can do no more than speak her own name back to her to render her powerless. He turns her tricks around on her: he calls her by her name, and he calls her by the names others call her.  _Godslayer. Flamebringer. Savior of Ishgard._  These names he whispers in her ear, against the back of her neck, into her mouth as he kisses her. There is a part of him that relishes in the feeling the words give him. His voice is both teasing and reverent as he overpowers her, in whatever way he may be--a smirking affirmation that she is completely at his mercy, wrapped around his finger. Yet there is an air of worship, an acknowledgement that the title is hers for good reason, that she deserves to hear it as praise. For all the lives she has saved (his included) she could strike him down just as she did gods, men, and adversaries beyond recognition. He knows that she could bring the entire place down in flames around them with the lips that tremble in anticipation, that she holds the fate of countless souls in the very same hands he pins to the bed. It's a power trip, he admits it, but it's a power she willingly gives again and again until there is none left in either of them.

And he knows she loves it just as much as he does. For all of her strength, all of her control, it is only his spell she longs to be under. She gasps and cries out in rapture as he teases her, as he takes her, as he knows nothing more than the taste and the scent of her. In his arms she allows herself to be only flesh and bone, for it is the only place she feels safe to be so. He knows this, too, and amidst the haze of their lust he marvels at the opportunity to know her in this way--the way no one else knows her, stripped of her titles and their burdens. Her only allowance of helplessness is at his touch, and the gift of her vulnerability is one he continues to disbelieve he deserves. Scars in her past have made her trust not easily won, and yet to him she has freely given it.

He has earned it, she corrects him, as she fondly recounts the admission that she did not trust him at all when they first met. When they met they were naught but their titles: _Ishgardian. Commander. Politician. Scion. Bringer of Light. Defender of Eorzea._  He put a face to the names and all of the outlandish stories, a face he never expected to see when he closed his eyes, or when he woke. He reaches, grasping at tangled hair and skin slick with sweat to bring this same face to his, and her eyes are bright and wild. She can see right inside him, as she always has, but her eyes no longer question him as they once did--she has no more questions to ask, for she knows who he is without his titles. He knows her, too. He knows her only as he does in this moment: he hears only her ragged breath, feels the heady air almost hum in his ears as she clings to her last shred of control.

With three words he convinces her to let go, to finally abandon her power. This name is not her name, yet it is the one she is most often called. A title spoken in relief, in excitement, in skepticism, in rage, in fear, he speaks now against her lips to undo them both. He orders her surrender and she obeys, and as they both are unmade the words still burn in his mouth:  _"Warrior of Light."_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am doing the #FFXIVWrite2017 November prompt challenge on Tumblr, and so far it's been occupying a good amount of my writing energies and putting more than one unfinished chapter on hold temporarily. So in the meantime, here's a non-update-update where I finally add these two older pieces that were originally posted on their own (and still are). And hell, if you haven't read them yet, I guess it's new content to you anyway ;)


	16. Polyglot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speaking in many words and in few  
> (a tiny late night spur of the moment drabble that demanded to be written before I could sleep)

 

They were always talking, even when they were not.

After a certain point the spoken words would always give way to either the quiet of sleep or the quiet of physical interruption. His fingers would blaze a soft but decisive trail along the curve of her neck so that his breath could follow, and she would pull him close and silence him with her lips and her thighs. Their conversations would continue for as long as they had the strength to speak, though the language had changed.

She had always been skilled with languages, a quick learner of new vocabulary and a good ear for pronunciation. She could tell him she loved him in Hannish, Hingan, perhaps even ancient Nymian, if she consulted the right text. Useful, even rather impressive as it may have been, none of those languages mattered in the end. They mattered not because she could speak without sound using only her hands: smoothing over his skin, tangling in his hair, grasping at bedsheets. She could tell him everything she needed to with a look, with a laugh, with desperate sounds offered freely into the dark. He would answer in kind, with his fingertips, his arms, his shallow breath, and though it was not audible words he shaped with his tongue when he spoke to her, she could understand.

Her eyes are bright but peaceful and his smile is weary but they're still talking, even in their tired silence.

"You have such a way with words," he whispers a laugh against her throat.

"There are still many more to learn in this new language," she says.

In what language, he asks her, and she tells him with a kiss: "The one spoken only to you."

 

 

 


	17. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to the Bowl of Embers is not an event easily processed. The remaining pall of doubt, disillusionment, and existential dread has left the Warrior of Light feeling acutely uncomfortable, and forcing her to face feelings and truths she has been avoiding for quite some time. But a good friend is a friend to one's mind, and if Aymeric is anything he is certainly that, though both routinely wonder how differently that dinner may have turned out had crisis not presented itself in the way of happiness, an occurrence now all too familiar.
> 
> I am messing with the timeline again: this takes place shortly after the events of 3.4 MSQ and pre-wine cellar.

 

 

Alyx wasn't sure why home no longer felt like home. It was not an experience she was used to: she knew what it felt like to leave home, certainly, but not what it felt like for home to leave her.

Not until now, sleepless and anxious in her room at the Rising Stones, after an evening of celebration--celebration of her and the Scions' homecoming, of their family reuniting under their shared roof--did she understand the feeling. She had been back at Revenant's Toll for several days now, and though everyone around her seemed to immediately settle back into their old comforts she felt awkward, out of place. The bed she slept in (or tried to sleep in) was the same bed as before she left for Ishgard, but it felt unfamiliar, and almost as if she physically did not fit in it anymore.

She was consumed by her own thoughts, as if they were drowning out all else. There were questions she could not stop asking herself, and accusations she could not stop making, and with every move she felt the painful shards of detailed memory like broken glass in her skin. Talking about it surely would help, she kept thinking, and yet none of it seemed possible to speak about--none of the words would come, instead settling deep in her like a sickness. She had exhausted her usual means of calming her mind otherwise and decided to simply leave: to escape the somehow warped familiarity of the Rising Stones, to slip away into the cool night air of the plaza with tired eyes, barely sure what she was doing there. She felt naught else but a base and primal urge to be somewhere else.

This pull was all she had to follow, and it was what drove her to raise her hand to the aetheryte and will her body to be carried away. She left Revenant's Toll without even a second thought, knowing almost by instinct where she wanted to go.

When she felt the wet sting of the wind on her face and the crunch of snow under her boots on the other side she gasped and doubled over, feeling like she might retch. Her vision returned hazily and she staggered, with blood roaring in her ears and her stomach twisting in knots. Aetheryte travel was uncomfortable even at her best--she sighed at the admission that attempting it on so little sleep and in admittedly piss-poor mental shape was not one of her most responsible decisions.

The weather, however, she knew could not count as her own fault, for she realized immediately that she just arrived in Ishgard during the onset of heavy snowfall.

 _Of course,_ she thought, and she thought very little else. She simply trudged through the snow, wishing she had worn a heavier cloak and different boots, and squinted through the flurries as they seemed to glow in the lantern light. For a while, all she did was walk, unsure exactly where she was headed, but oddly comforted by the severity of the towering skyline and the bitter cold. This did not feel like home, not exactly, but somehow it felt better than her bed at the Rising Stones. She made her way through the Forum and ascended the stairway to the levels above, marching on as if her feet moved of their own accord, but stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted two figures about to cross her path.

The two men were knights in House Fortemps colors, and though Alyx recognized one of them she could not remember his name. Her heart jumped into her throat and she ducked into a nearby doorway, pulling her hood down over her face as she watched them pass, and as they did she felt tears sting in her eyes.

House Fortemps. Home.

_Home?_

She drew a deep and shaking breath as the two knights disappeared into the blizzard, heading off toward the upper avenues of the high houses. If they had recognized her, they would have greeted her and taken her to Fortemps Manor, to Edmont, to Artoirel, to the room she used to call her own, without question--perhaps, even, despite her protest. Even the knights whose names she didn't know were as good as brothers to her, and yet she hid from them like some guilty thief, a scared animal. It was a simple answer, was it not, where home truly was, why she even came here in the first place--had her destination not been House Fortemps all along?

Perhaps it had, and yet...

When faced with it, the thought of returning twisted like a knife, and all she could feel was crushing shame. Here stood their triumphant hero who mere days prior had gone "home" to Mor Dhona to reunite with her merry band of Scions; here she was, a tired wreck come crawling back to their doorstep to ask more of them, to once again burden the ones she had for so long. The Savior of Ishgard stood huddled in an unlit doorway, a slayer of dragons and gods afraid to look her adoptive family in the eyes.

 _Why did you even come here, then?_ she asked herself bitterly, cursing herself for a coward, wanting nothing more than to collapse in the snow and weep. The street was already so disguised by the snow that it looked unfamiliar, but she knew where she was: when she finally oriented herself, she recognized exactly whose doorway sat across the street from the one she had been hiding in.

Alyx sighed. It was Borel Manor.

She argued with herself about what she should do: seek shelter here under the roof of a friend who may not even be at home, or risk the frustration of yet another sleepless night in an uncomfortable bed at the Forgotten Knight. Eventually, even though the very sound reasoning of _"it's very late at night, if he's home he's probably asleep, in which case you shouldn't wake him, he needs all of the rest he can get"_ somehow lost to the same intagible and primal urge that had brought her to Ishgard in the first place, a powerful yearning for something and a peculiar certainty that this was exactly where she should be.

Perhaps House Fortemps had not been her destination after all. Of course it hadn't. She wondered with a wry clarity if she had always intended to come here, for she had merely followed where her anxious mind wandered looking for rest. Perhaps it had not been home at all but peace of mind and spirit: perhaps it had been Aymeric.

Had it always been Aymeric?

Unable to do anything else, she laughed. She laughed because it was absurd, really, that she had buried herself deep enough in her own denial to travel malms in the middle of the night without ever acknolwedging her intent.

She wondered if tonight, despite all else, this need would only be satisfied by his company, perhaps even by the mere sight of him--the thought nearly scared her more than the thought of being spotted by the patrolling knights. But moreso than that, maybe she could talk to him, she thought, maybe with him she would be able to find the words to get the darkness out, so she could finally breathe unburdened. Or at least...

She cursed herself for a coward once again, but this time with a smile.

She wasn't sure if it was courage or desperation that guided her soaked and tired feet up the steps and her shaking hand to the bronze knocker at the door, but something new had stirred in her uneasy stomach, something that seemed to soften the writhing shame. She stood there, frozen fingers unmoving, until some sort of reckless hope swelled within her chest and she knocked twice.

 

\----

 

Alyx arrived unannounced at the door of Borel Manor to find Aymeric not only home but answering the door himself. Evidently he had been the only one awake, which did not surprise her. What had surprised her was that he did not once ask what she was doing there, or why: instead he ushered her inside immediately with barely a word to his study where he had been tending a recently refreshed fire.

"It must be fate," he had said with a smile as he helped her out of her snow-drenched cloak, "I have just brewed some tea."

She had not had a chance to say much save for asking if she had woken him (clearly not), and could offer little else but sheepish and quiet thanks when he drew a thick blanket around her shivering shoulders.

"Thank you," she looked up at him as he stood before her, infuriatingly, magnificently handsome in the firelight, and smiled weakly, "As you can tell, I dressed rather poorly for tonight's weather."

His smile remained, but an eyebrow raised. "I admit I was somewhat surprised to find you in such a state."

 _"Such a state." Miserable and sickly looking as well as inadequately prepared for the cold_ , she thought, the vague hints of shame returning. His hands lingered in the folds of the blanket around her, rooting her to the spot, and she shuddered deeply, perhaps more from fatigue than from the cold.

"This was..." she began, and faltered, eventually looking away from him, "Something of a spontaneous trip."

She clutched the thick wool closer, part of her wanting to conceal herself in it entirely. She looked back into his eyes, icy but warm, tender but searching--she could feel his unvoiced questions, though oddly none of them seemed to be "what are you doing here." Instead the prevailing questions in his expression appeared to be whether she was all right, what he could do to help her, what was troubling her so.

"Whatever the reason for your arrival," he said, "It gladdens my heart to see you, my friend."

She smiled, shame once again replaced by a familiar rushing warmth in her chest. Her heart was heavy and her mind was full, tumultuous and tired, but she already felt such a blissful sort of calm around him that for a moment she had very nearly forgotten the depth of the sorrow and unease that had brought her here in the first place.

And so he had sat her down in front of the fire and put a cup of tea in her hands, still not requesting any sort of explanation, though something about his proximity encouraged her to speak. He sat beside her and she told him everything without hesitation, everything that had happened since last they spoke. Once she started talking she couldn't stop: it was as if the words were escaping her unbidden, relieved, aching to be said. The details that overwhelmed her spilled from her lips until her voice began to hurt, completely forgetting to drink the tea in her hands.

When her story brought her back to the Bowl of Embers she stumbled, the words tasting fearful and difficult once again. The battle, the aftermath, it all felt like a fever dream, so visceral and clear but so bizarre and unbelievable. She could nearly hear their voices, even still. Alyx knew she had arrived at the crux of the matter, the burning knot she had not been able to untangle, and as she explained her voice started to weaken.

"I am still asking myself if I did the right thing," she said.

There was quiet. She looked up at Aymeric who had been frowning thoughtfully into the fire as he listened, though now his eyes had returned to hers.

"How so?"

His voice pressed her gently, as if he knew this was a precipice she struggled upon--a line he knew she needed to traverse. He looked at her like he knew she was near the center of the maze, encouraging her to take another step.

 _"You of all people should understand,"_ the memory of Arbert's voice taunted her faintly.

"Could I have saved their world with my death? One life for one world, he said, as if it was as simple as that. And what if it was?"

"Hmm. And what if it was not?" Aymeric asked her. "Men on the brink of their own defeat say a great many things, some true...some purely desperate."

"Another question I cannot answer," she sighed. He did not press her further, but she took a breath and with it another step out of the dark.

"I think... regardless of the questions I am asking myself now, in that moment I....must have known my answer."

She looked back into his eyes, desperately seeking the reassurance they seemed to provide her.

"I could not abandon this world to save another. I could not," she said. "And no matter the outcome, I...chose selfishly. I chose what I wanted. I did not _want_ to abandon this world."

 _That was it,_ she thought with sudden relief, _that is what you have been trying to say for days now._

For it was not merely a matter of her duty, or even of what she was literally capable of--she had made her choice to protect the land she loved and the people in it, she had chosen to protect what she could call home. She had chosen to protect the world she felt responsible for, the world she wanted to live in.

_For those we have lost. For those we can yet save._

The intensity of the relief she felt making so simple a statement made it feel like a confession, like she was unburdening herself of some great sin; and yet, once spoken aloud, it seemed no longer to be a sin at all.

"I am certain I speak for all of Eorzea and the lands beyond when I say I am full glad you did not," Aymeric said, and paused. "And yet, the very fact alone that you would even consider it, that you would even for a moment entertain the possibility of making such a sacrifice..." he hesitated, as if choosing his words very carefully.

"It is why we love you."

Their eyes met as the sentence hung in the air like intoxicating, fragrant smoke. She wanted to hold onto the sound of those last two words so she could listen to them over and over again.

"I..." she began, and tried to look away from him but was brought back almost immediately before she spoke again. "I hope I am worthy of such love."

"Worthy?" He repeated with a breathless laugh, incredulous, but soft. "That and more."

 _Oh gods, what is happening here?_ Having given up her confession, the tide of her sadness had begun to ebb away: she was left naked on the shore with only the strangely pleasant ache she felt at his closeness, at how overwhelmingly gods-damned beautiful he was, at how...truly good she felt? She had almost forgotten what it felt like for her mind to be at peace, but this was something new entirely, something thrilling and terrifying and so very wonderful in its unfamiliarity. She was not sure if it was the lateness of the hour, the intensity of her fatigue, Aymeric's stalwart kindness, or some combination, but something wild and bold within her caused her to reach for his hand where it rest on the sofa between them.

"Thank you," Alyx said. His hand did not immediately move at her touch, but soon his long fingers curled their way around hers. Her heart hammered in her chest so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

He smiled. "Whatever for?"

_For being here. For listening. For your faith in me. For being the only person who seems to truly care about what I want. For your friendship. For your strength. For your heart. For..._

"Everything," she supplied finally. She looked down at her hand, marveling at how small it appeared in his. She looked back up into his eyes and felt her heart ache and cry out in either happiness or agony or some mixture of both.

 _"You don't have to thank me,"_ is what she expected him to say, and it may be what she saw in his face as his expression changed slightly. It was a look he had given her before, but she couldn't quite place when or where--it made her feel alone in a peculiar way, in a good way, almost as if she was truly the only thing he was capable of seeing in that moment.

When he said nothing, her natural instincts toward humor and practicality urged her to continue: "Specifically, I suppose," she said, "for bringing me in from the cold."

"'Tis the very least I could possibly do," he said, shaking his head slightly, and exhaled with a smile. "'Everything,' you say, and yet I fear nothing shall ever be enough. Oft I wonder how I am ever to repay you for all that you have done for me," he paused before amending "And for Ishgard."

Laughter colored the edge of her words as she remained hyper-aware and disbelieving that he was still holding her hand. "As I've told you many times before, there is nothing to repay. Besides..."

She trailed off again. Why was speaking so damned hard? She was exhausted, she knew, and relieved to have unburdened her thoughts, and yet this seemed impossibly difficult. The way he was looking at her did not help.

"Besides?"

Alyx smiled, her eyes tired in the firelight. "This is everything I need right now," she said.

 

\-----

 

"Will you not stay?"

Aymeric smiled as he asked it, but there was something more serious in his tone. Alyx balked briefly at his question, fidgeting with the trim of her jacket.

"I...can't," she managed to reply, wide-eyed, though only about half of her wanted to. Hours earlier she had awoken in a panic, not recognizing the room she was in until she spotted the snowfall outside of the window beside the bed. Guest chambers, warm and comfortably prepared--she was at the Manor still, and though she had never stepped foot in these particular rooms before, she felt it all familiar. The accommodations were luxurious in an oddly modest way, like much of what she had seen of the place so far: warm, richly colored, but also simple and unassuming.

Alyx had remained in bed for considerable time before working up her courage to seek out the lord of the house, only to be informed that he had left earlier that morning on business to the Congregation (of course he had). She thought about leaving, about slipping away before he returned, but that part of her mind had weakened and paled beside the unexpectedly deep comfort she felt merely being within these walls, at the desire to see him again.

And so she had remained: accepted the offer of a warm bath and explored his extensive library until he reappeared, noticeably relieved to see her.

 _"You look well,"_ he had told her, and she had prayed she was not blushing.

 _"That was the best night's sleep I've had in quite some time,"_ she explained, remembering that a decent portion of it had occurred slumped against his shoulder on the sofa long before she made her way to an actual bed. She had woken without realizing she had fallen asleep, apparently so soothed by the sound of his voice to have found her weary head nestled into the crook of his neck, where she could breathe in his warmth and the scent of his hair. He admitted he had briefly fallen asleep as well, and mildly embarrassed they had both laughed--how good it had felt to laugh like that, even so gently, so tiredly. It was a different kind of tired now, the kind of tired that sent her back to sleep immediately as she hit the pillows, as she struggled to ascertain whether she had imagined him kissing her forehead before he left her.

Now, in the light of day she stood with him in his foyer, feeling as though she were being pulled apart in every direction.

"I...had hoped you would take some more time to rest before leaving," Aymeric continued. He looked down and away from her, looking as if he had more to say but struggled with whether or not he should.

Alyx smiled, knowing it would not reach her eyes. "No rest for the righteous."

He looked back at her and shook his head slightly, a poignant understanding coming over his face.

 _"You of all people should understand,"_ she could still hear Arbert say.

"Even when the righteous are the most deserving," Aymeric answered her, and she knew he did.

"In that case," she said, "You had better get some rest yourself."

She turned and reached toward the door, the willful and panicked part of her seizing control and forcing her to leave him. Her breath caught when he closed the distance between them in a single step and took her hand.

"Alyx, I..."

She had no idea how after all this time, hearing him say her name instilled such a deep reaction in her. He let out a breath, his expression suggesting he was on the edge of some difficult decision, and once again she felt her stomach wringing itself like a damp cloth in what certainly _felt_ like fear, but was not quite fear. His thumb passed lightly over the back of her hand and his lips parted as if to speak again but he gave her no words.

She gave him hers, instead.

"I'll be back," she told him, and felt her voice waver, "Very soon."

He smiled again and her stomach unwrapped itself and leaped into her throat. "Nothing would please me more," he said.

Alyx looked down at their hands between them. "Perhaps," she began with a half smile when she looked back up, "With some more advanced notice next time."

The warmth in his eyes was warmth she felt in her fingers and toes, behind her eyes, deep in her chest. That paradoxically burning ice blue was so comfortably paralyzing, crushing, and not frightening itself but frightening in the way it made her feel.

"I would hope this goes without saying, Alyx," he said, his voice much lower and softer than before, "You shall always be at home here."

Home.

She wondered if her heart was breaking. It was as if the deep fissures forming in its walls over so much time had finally connected, to weaken the defense so that the gentlest touch could topple them. It was breaking, she was _sure,_ and yet it was rebuilding itself: better, brighter, out of something else, something soft but just as strong. It was building something new out of this quiet warmth, out of the way he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, to linger and take a single reverent breath against her bare skin before he spoke. The words themselves she had heard him say so very many times before but they had never sounded quite like this: speaking volumes in three short syllables, creating an entire world of the two of them in this moment.

“My dear friend."

There was a pause before he spoke again, before he opened his eyes, multitudes beyond the words he said aloud.

"Do take care," he said.

Alyx looked up at him and felt like even though she was at the door and about to leave that she was entering somewhere else entirely. Merely by holding his gaze she took one first cautious step over the threshold, and though she could not speak, she squeezed his hand gently as if to tell him that he was not in this new world alone.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another labor of love. As always, I can only hope I did it all justice. Thank you all for reading, your patience, and your feedback :)
> 
> You can find an unintentional companion piece/'prequel' of sorts [here,](https://emilyplaysgames.tumblr.com/post/163373645594/more-alphinaud-found-her-hunched-over-the-desk) for some bonus Alphinaud friendship feels + additional post 3.4 angst


	18. In Anticipation,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alyx receives a letter from Aymeric and reaches the end of her rope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly spicy but not explicit. Takes place between [Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11012871/chapters/29908953) and [The Wine Cellar.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11012871/chapters/24664047) Slowly but surely filling in the connective tissue.

 

 

Alyx can almost not bear to look at the writing on the page, for fear the words or the mere sight of the script itself will undo her. She eyes the letter cautiously, but longingly, from across the room: sees it where it sits on the table by the window, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across its surface.

After several achingly long minutes she lets out a growling, exasperated sigh and crosses the room again to pick it up, to pull the wax apart, and with her heart pounding in her ears she beholds what is without a doubt the shortest letter from him she has ever received:

 _Alyx,_  
_Forgive me, for I have spent all night attempting to write you only to burn all attempts but this. I shall be brief, for there is truly only one question I wish to ask you:_  
_When can I see you again?_  
_In anticipation,_  
_Aymeric_

She reads it only once and all but slaps it face down onto the table. She curses him in a whisper, her cheeks hot, unable to do anything else but laugh.

" _In anticipation_ ," she says aloud, "How dare he."

Alyx walks swiftly away from the table with her arms crossed over her chest only to return less than a moment later to read the letter again, and again, struggling to ignore the surprisingly large part of her who wishes not to reply, but simply go to him. Part of her wants to run away to Ishgard and appear on his doorstep all over again, or burst into his office and interrupt anything he may be doing so she can simply see his face, hear his voice.

It has been a fortnight since she saw him, since they stood in his foyer, since she had that moment of startling emotional clarity that told her, over and over: _you love him._ A fortnight since she stepped heavily in the snow to drown out the voice, to ignore the burn that his kiss had left on the back of her hand; a fortnight of wondering what might have happened had she stayed, had she not fled from the manor back out into the world beyond.

A fortnight of dreams, now far too frequent and far too real to ignore: dreams of him breathing her name against her neck, of the weight of his hands, of the tips of his ears against the inside of her thighs. And the dreams in which all he does is smile at her, or laugh, or speak to her, those are somehow _worse_ \--for they are the ones that embolden that voice that sighs, defeated: _you love him._

The hour is late and her body aches with overexertion but all she wants to do is find another practice dummy to destroy, find another excuse to fight, anyone, anything. Instead she resorts to a wash basin of cold water, splashing her face and the back of her neck, staring bewildered into the mirror. Her reflection is both tired and manic, her full lips a stubborn frown but her eyes bright with excitement; she rakes her fingers through her hair and shakes her head at herself, at the face that tells her weakly: _you love him._

That night she dreams of him again, and she wakes in a sweat and with frustrated tears in her eyes and tries to exorcise him with her own hands. But there is no relief, not even after her body shakes and she curses into her pillows in a broken voice. Whatever comfort she can invent for herself does nothing to combat the torture her own mind has devised: it does nothing to dispel the warmth of his lips on hers, the feeling of him burying himself in her flesh and making her whole. It does nothing to keep her from staring at the ceiling and wishing for his presence beside her, wishing just to be near him.

Ironic, she muses with an almost angry sigh, how the last truly deep and restful night she experienced was under his roof. She didn't admit it at the time, but her mind and her body begged for him, even in the dreamless peace he had been able to provide merely by existing in the rooms beyond, by listening to her burdened thoughts, by offering her sanctuary. It's so stupid, she growls to herself, so completely and utterly foolish, but it is what has been in her heart for longer than she cares to admit. Her mind with its dreams and her body with its desire only labor to convince her what she has tried to ignore, what has made her feel as alive as it has convinced her she was dying.

It is all she can do to accept, hopelessly, what she's always known: that he gives her something she didn't know or acknowledge she ever needed, that she sees in him all she has ever wanted. Her dearest friend and ally and _oh,_ how she wants more than that--how she wants to lace her fingers in his again, how she wants to lay her head on his chest and feel the vibrations of his speech, the beating of his heart. How she wants to feel herself small in his arms, how she wants him to break her to blissful pieces, how she wants to be _his._

And she's afraid, she knows it. She's afraid to tell him, to show him her heart, for what will he see then? But she reminds herself that he's different, he always has been: he's different because he's always treated her as Alyx, as a person, as a friend. She's afraid, even when she reminds herself that with him she's the bravest she's ever felt. She's both invincible and powerless at his side: his support and care for her only serve to make her stronger, as they always have, and yet here she lies in the dark, wanting to weep over her own weakness.

Alyx's fingers falter and her legs tremble, and she exhales her hot and desperate breath. She considers standing, considers getting dressed and running until her legs give out, but she can only lie there in her own defeat. There are still tears in her eyes but she's smiling now, she's tired of fighting a battle she doesn't want to win. She shapes the words but does not speak them aloud, does not say it even though her thoughts are fit to burst into speech, keening, sobbing, in pain and in breathless rapture at once: _I love him._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a [silly drabble](https://emilyplaysgames.tumblr.com/post/170134782374/later) from Alphinaud's POV that takes place right before this, too, for even more flustered, frustrated, lovesick Alyx. Poor thing 8)


	19. "Don't Leave."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I love you – I do – but I am afraid of making that love too important. Because you’re always going to leave me…We can’t deny it. You’re always going to leave." [(x)](https://thequotejournals.com/search/david-levithan)

 

 

Alyx wasn’t sure how many times she’d said it, and she wasn’t sure when she stopped counting. The words tasted familiar, so familiar they’d lost their bitterness. It had become a quiet two syllables dragging the weight of the dead and the absent behind them, a quiet two words accented by every previous utterance.

“Don’t leave.”

It was not an uncommon phrase. It was an easy and readily available combination of words, and the circumstances for its use were many and varied. She would say it to her brother whenever she saw him, whenever she heard him, whenever the Echo chose to take her to Carteneau.  _Don’t leave_ , she would demand whenever the vision cleared, whenever she woke, but it was years later and he couldn’t hear her. Sometimes she said it with a laugh, as an apology, as an order; she said to subordinates, to friends, to lovers. She said it to one lover multiple times, for he would leave, but always come back, until the day he didn’t. And she’d said it to her friends in the canals below Ul’dah: her brave, selfless friends, when she implored them not to leave even though she was the one running. She  _begged_  it of Haurchefant as his eyes fluttered, as his hand slipped away from her face, but even  _he_  left—even if by no choice of his own.

She had said it so much that in time it became internalized and soundless; it became a desperate look, clenched fingers, held breath. It became an ever-present wish in the back of her mind, with every new friend she made, with every pang of something more. She tried her best not to speak the words out loud, not to ask it of people anymore, because they would leave, one way or another,  _they would always leave_. Over time she simply hardened herself against the need to say it again: she chose to bury the impulse instead, and tell herself she was fine letting people go.

But she wasn’t, she never was, so when she heard those same words spoken to  _her_  they stuck in her heart like thorns, piercing deeper with every breath she took.

_“Don’t leave.”_

He had been saying it to her for a long time, even if never out loud. He would say it every time they parted, though he always knew they must–-Aymeric knew far better than most that she did not leave without duty to beckon her. It was a burden they shared, even if not entirely the same, and Alyx had come to recognize his hidden urge to voice those two heavy syllables, the repressed desire to grasp hold of her with anything but his hands. She recognized it because she was saying it too, always, without any words.

This time he said it out loud, though, with a husky sleepiness in his voice, a decisive tenderness in his hand when it found hers. “Don’t leave,” he said, sensing her stirring beside him, warm and quiet as the dawn’s light crept through the partially-drawn curtains. Alyx froze, twisting where she lay propped up with one elbow, and her chest rose and fell sharply with each silent exhale. She wondered if he was dreaming: his eyes were closed, his brow was knit with a subtle twinge of concern mostly concealed by the tousled darkness of his hair. 

Alyx’s heart was heavy and full, and in the long few seconds that passed in the wake of his murmured request she felt everything so very deeply it brought prickling heat to the backs of her eyes. She finally smiled, gently, determinedly, and relaxed back into the pillows, winding her arm around him from behind, squeezing the hand that held hers.

“I won’t,” she whispered into the crook of his neck, and fell back asleep.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt response for "don't leave." I struggled with this because I feel like it's extremely important but very hard for me to express....it's such an integral part of both of their characters and their relationship, and though I feel it's something I've been able to touch on before, the need to state it explicitly is what drove me to write this. If that makes any damn sense.


	20. Curious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scene from Artoirel's nameday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between "In Anticipation" and "The Wine Cellar," circa 3.4.

 

 

 

After wending his way through the quieter hallways of Fortemps Manor, Aymeric found Alyx in the portrait gallery. She stood tall and still, her figure ensconced in lamplight and the hum of music and chatter from the ballroom beyond.

"Found me," she said without turning, before he had even had chance to make a sound--he knew not if it were magic or mere instinct, but she always seemed to sense him coming. "I hope my disappearance did not cause alarm."

"Merely my curiosity," Aymeric explained, "I am not certain anyone else had yet noticed."

That would be a comfort to her, he knew, for even among friends she remained in the hot brightness of the proverbial spotlight. Though she seemed in better health and spirits than their last meeting he could still feel her weariness, still hear the unease hidden in her voice. Perhaps gatherings such as these made her nervous, regardless of the enjoyable company and palpable mirth in the atmosphere: she was always in the light, even in times of peace, and those near her--those even in the farthest edges of the glow--were under her constant protection.

Here in the gallery, however, she had found a moment of peace, one Aymeric hoped he had not spoiled with the curiosity that brought him to her. He understood all too well the desire for solitude when the dance and drink and polite conversation had begun to feel heavy. Though she had been a smiling, dazzling rush of silk and laughter in the sparkling brightness of the ballroom, here in the gallery the softer light suited her just so: soft, golden, her shadow lithe rather than jagged. Her boundless energy calmed into gentle darkness, holding her champagne in contemplation at the far end of the room before a portrait of Lord Haurchefant, the newest addition to the family gallery.

Aymeric joined her, and they stood in silence for a time while he considered the portrait with a thoughtful frown. It was not the first time he had seen it, for he had a chance to visit soon after its commission, and felt it did solemn justice to his old friend’s visage. The colors were fresh and vibrant, and the detail superb–the artist had caught the hint of laugh lines around his eyes, managed to capture the perfectly windswept quality of his hair, though his mouth was set in perhaps too firm a line. Aymeric could not ignore the vague pangs of grief and shame deep in the pit of his stomach at the sight of his friend’s face, recognizable but decidedly unfamiliar. ‘Twas more difficult, he felt, given a moment of quiet away from the joyous hum of celebration.

_Some wounds never heal._

“A fair likeness, would you not agree?” His voice felt heavy, quieter than he intended.

Alyx cocked her head to one side, pursing her lips as she kept her eyes fixed on the extremely sober and dignified portrayal of their old friend. Her countenance was difficult to read, but Aymeric heard both the twinge of sadness and the ache of love in her words when she spoke.

“I just wish they had painted him smiling,” she said. Aymeric felt _himself_ smile at that, if in agreement more than anything else.

"He does look quite...serious," he agreed. It was the unfortunate case with most formal portraits, but with Haurchefant it seemed particularly out of character. The vision before him was one of gravity and pride, Haurchefant as the brave and dutiful knight he was, though missing all of the charm and warmth he had possessed. Perhaps it was too much to ask of a mere painting, but when he thought of him he thought also of Alyx: thought of the light in his eyes, the hopeful words written in countless letters, the excited cadence of his voice when he spoke to and about her.

"I rather prefer to remember him as he was with you," Aymeric said softly. The remark slipped out despite better judgement, and his throat felt dry with anticipation and a mildly panicked regret. Alyx turned to him with her sharp brows furrowed, her long earrings catching the light.

"He and I were--"

"Forgive me," Aymeric raised a hand as if to wave the previous statement away like some bothersome smoke. "'Twas not my place."

Alyx's face softened and she took a sip of her champagne, smirking into her glass.

"It's only natural to be curious about your friends' affairs," she said. There was something odd in her voice--he could not place it quite as amusement or self-satisfaction. Or perhaps relief.

"Tis poor excuse for such impertinence," Aymeric insisted, looking down and away from her. He worried his hands together behind his back. "Your affairs are your own, of course. Pray think nothing of it."

"Curiosity killed the cat," her voice was low and taunting in a way that made his ears feel hot. Alyx drank again, and then cast him a sidelong glance up through her lashes.

"Haurchefant and I were very close friends," she said finally, smiling back at the portrait, "and nothing more."

Aymeric's heart hammered in his ears to hear it, no matter how desperately he attempted to convince himself he cared naught for her answer. She took a breath, and raised a hand to fidget gently with the chain around her neck.

"I did often wonder if he might have felt something more, but I..." she trailed off. "I suppose I'll always be curious. Maybe I'm fortunate not knowing for sure."

 _Perhaps fortunate she did not lose a lover as well as a friend,_ Aymeric thought. He felt a peculiar weight lift from his heart with this revelation, a portion of his guilt softened. One more barrier, one more excuse, one more reason to question his very desires, vanished--and now, now he was filled with an even more powerful squall of longings and inquiries, each more insurmountable than the last.

He released his hands and stretched his fingers at his side, unable to think of anything else but the look on her face when she sat beside him in his study, the pleasant weight of her sleeping form against his shoulder. He remembered scent and softness of her hair against his lips when he so recklessly and sleepily left a kiss at her temple; he remembered feeling as though the world was both ending and beginning when she walked out of his door the next morning.

Over and over since, his mind tortured him with wondering what was in her heart, a heart so large and generous and still so guarded. Surely there must be something more, part of him urged him, surely she must feel for him at least some negligible fragment of what he felt for her. But it was folly, surely it was! She was a woman who could have any man she wanted, a woman whose courage and exploits inspired ballads. _Yet_ , he dared to reason, was she not also his friend who came to his doorstep in the middle of the night merely to be vulnerable in his company? His friend who stood beside him now in the quiet warmth of the gallery, away from the noise and laughter and revelry, here she was _Alyx,_ here with him she was simply the woman who wore the burden of the light.

Here she was a woman who showed him her vulnerability again, though this time dressed in emeralds and the hint of a champagne flush rather than a snow-laden cloak. She was a woman who missed her absent friend, who sought a moment of solitude amidst the joy of celebration, who he wished to comfort, in what way he could. He wished to share her solitude, to shoulder some of its weight, and so his hand reached for hers almost of its own accord, _curious_ , like a giddy moth to a flame, all consequence and fears suddenly absent from his mind.

The heel of his hand met hers in a tender collision, and his fingertips trailed lightly down the inner curve of her palm. His thumb smoothed along the outside of hers, tentatively, and he felt her fingers spread to invite his to weave between them. The tips of her fingers pressed gently into his knuckles, and the seconds expanded, endlessly, with every breath he took, with every gentle increase in pressure. She shifted her weight toward him, and the warmth of her forearm brushed his own--a gentle exhale released into the quiet, a gradual softening of her form at his side. He had kept his gaze forced in front of him, ceasing to even recognize the brushstrokes on the painting before him, nor even the room in which he stood, until he finally looked down at her.

Alyx’s eyes remained downcast and her smile somewhat controlled, hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite ready for it yet. She parted her lips to speak but silence followed, continued, heavy and tempestuous between them as the cacophony of the rooms beyond softened to a dull and dreamlike roar. When she looked back up at him, the turn of her head was so slight ‘twas nigh undetectable; the warmth of the shadows fit her comfortably, the glow of the lamps bright in her eyes, green reflecting gold beneath the darkness of her lashes. She said nothing, but she released the hold on the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth until she smiled fully, freely, and he saw her only as she was in that moment, only as she had been in countless moments before that he had failed to recognize until now. He saw her as he knew her and as he longed to know her: soft, unguarded, blessedly unencumbered by the light.

The silence ached, yearning to break, until she finally spoke.

"I'm glad you found me," she said. 

Her voice was but a murmur, the look in her eyes was an expression of both questioning and answering, of curiosity and assurance. The caress of her thumb along the edge of his palm had created in him a sort of haze, yet through it he found his voice again to reply.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he echoed her with a smile, "but satisfaction brought it back."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know the second part of that phrase? ;)
> 
> I'm sorry to have been so long without an update! I hope a nice bit of clandestine hand-holding is worth the wait. <3


	21. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her defeat at Rhalgr's Reach, Alyx goes to Gridania to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place some time after ["Communications"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012871/chapters/25329156) but before Alyx leaves for the Far East. This may end up being one of several pieces from this particular stay in Gridania, because I have a lot of important things to address during this time period but can't do it all in one chapter.
> 
> I'll call this NSFW to be on the safe side, but it's very tame/non-explicit. Mostly feelings.

__

*

__

 

__

_I’m alive_ , Alyx kept telling herself, never really believing it. All around her were reminders of the fact, reminders that she had been “spared” or that she had been “lucky” or even that she had been “strong,” but rather than provide relief such reminders only served to wear her down. She was, of course, glad to be alive rather than not, yet once again the circumstances caused her pain: the pain of grief, of failure, of uncertainty, and the pain of her entire body crying out for rest. She had recovered just enough from the Reach to ride swiftly but painfully through the rains of the Twelveswood to Gridania rather than continue on to Limsa Lominsa with her companions, and once there she quickly concealed herself within the stolen privacy of a suite of rooms at the Carline Canopy: a warm but lonely sanctuary where the lamplight fought for dominance over the rainy gloom beyond the windows.

__

In a windblown flurry and sparkling with raindrops Aymeric came to her less than a day after she had arrived, for Gridania was half way, they decided. He insisted he meet her there rather than have her suffer the journey all the way to Ishgard without aether-assisted haste, and after exchanging bright and fervent looks and scant words in the corridor--had he come alone? Had she been waiting long?--they stood ilms apart in silence.

__

He raised his hands to her face, and she felt the tips of his long fingers cool at the nape of her neck. His touch was not forceful but it was deliberate and steady; his face was a mask, unreadable and serious, though his brows were low and his jaw was tense. He looked at her with such an icy blue ferocity that she began to wonder if he was angry, if the veiled tension in his gaze was fury. Nevertheless, the hands that held her, though unwavering, softened just slightly, one of his thumbs brushing over her cheekbone.

__

She felt a tightness in her chest and a weakness in her tired legs, and she swallowed, wetting her lips before she finally gathered a trembling murmur to break the crushing silence.

__

“Aymeric, please,” she implored him quietly. “Say something.”

__

He exhaled, a short, sharp, wisp of a sound, before his hands tightened slightly and he bent to kiss her. The weakness in her legs threatened her further, very nearly making her stumble at the touch of his lips. She did not immediately open her eyes when they broke apart, for her lids felt heavy and burdened with the effort not to weep.

__

"My dearest," Aymeric said, voice dark with a complication of emotions, "You frightened me."

__

His face was changed when he looked at her again: his brow knit with pain and yet softened by the comfort of her presence. There were tears in his eyes.

__

Alyx's heart felt raw and tired and now it felt as if it were breaking, a violent mixture of guilt and helplessness burning her from the inside out. The tightness in her chest seemed to simultaneously release and constrict, as if she had taken a painfully large gulp of air.

__

"I know," she managed to choke out her response in a whisper. _I'm alive_ , she thought, faintly, as some feeble explanation or apology, but she couldn't say it. The evidence was in front of him and in his grasp, but she felt hollow and inadequate as proof.

__

"I..." She opened her mouth to speak again but failed, her lungs and throat unwilling. He answered her, wordlessly, kissing her again, harder and deeper this time, until he conjured a broken noise from her throat. He did not speak, but his hands spoke, falling from her neck to her shoulders, her hips-- _"You're alive,_ " they seemed to say, desperate and passionate with relief. She wound her arms around him as tightly as she could bear, clawing into the thick fabric of his cloak, fearing she may fall without it. She did fall, eventually, when she felt the edge of the bed at the backs of her knees, and pulled him down against her.

__

She was consumed by sudden and agonizing need, one that reminded her keenly of their time apart, further incensed by her brush with death. She sensed in him the same ache for reassurance when she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, making him groan into her mouth while he struggled with the fastenings of his cloak. Alyx fought with the laces of her boots and struggled to kick them away, hooking one leg around the back of Aymeric's knee so she could meet his hip bones again, so she could feel his heat of his thigh between her legs. His lips burned her neck, pressing deep into her pulse, but his hands froze upon the curve of her breasts.

__

"Are you--" his breath was ragged, but his caution was apparent. He had yet to truly know the extent of her wounds, and his icy eyes were questioning, nearly afraid, when he drew away. He failed to complete his question before she answered him.

__

"I'm fine," Alyx said, quickly, hoarsely.

__

Aymeric seemed understandably less than convinced. His face darkened with disbelief, by hesitation, and it was all she could do to stare back into his eyes unflinchingly.

__

“I’m fine,” she repeated, smiling at him weakly.

__

He said nothing, but his face spoke for him just as his silence had through the static of a linkpearl: _Don’t lie to me._ But she was not—it was far beyond that now, far beyond any hope of appearing before him in strength. She didn't need to be strong for him anymore, now she simply needed _him_. Her fingers fell to his where they remained halted by the buttons of her jacket, and held them there in silent encouragement.

__

_I'm alive, I'm fine_ , she repeated over and over in her mind, as she had while blinking into bitter darkness, tears and smoke stinging in her eyes. She told herself the same thing now days and nights later, half mad with desire and relief of her own, relief that swelled and burned when Aymeric smiled back at her before kissing her again. Buttons came undone with gentle urgency and cotton and leather slipped over her bruised shoulders until there was naught but a pale barrier of lace left to shield her, to make passingly comfortable attempt at hiding the bandages wrapped around her waist like a corset. Aymeric's fingers passed lightly over their surface, though he did not seek to delve further without her permission. She wasn't ready for him to see it, not yet--she wasn't ready to acknowledge it again so soon.

__

She was ready for his hands to find her, though, ready to shudder and buck her hips against them with a whine. She grasped clumsily at his belt while she squirmed and swore breathlessly into his ear, eliciting a rumbling groan from his throat when her teeth grazed its edge. She conquered the buttons of his shirt in a hunger for the feeling of his skin and gasped at the heat of his finger teasing its way within her.

__

Though he moved carefully he shared her impatience, and for that she was thankful. She wasn't sure if she could wait for him any longer, wasn't sure how she had managed to wait so long already--he spread her legs gently and pushed into her only slowly enough for comfort, a lasting struggle for control barely disguised by his fingertips digging into her thighs. No matter how ready she was the feeling of their connection overwhelmed her, and the moan she stifled against his neck sounded more like a sob.

__

Aymeric froze.

__

“Am I hurting you?”

__

The contact had stolen her breath, made the blood rush in her veins. It felt like fire, like a crushing flood—her eyes fluttered shut and she could feel her lungs fill again with air as they had for the first time after her fall. She could feel her muscles tense in anticipation and reaction both, the intense pressure of aether flow in her limbs, and she could see the darkness creeping away from the edges of her vision. She was transported again from the battlefield back into his arms and acutely aware of her own heart racing in her ears.

__

“No,” Alyx breathed, ignoring the pinch of her bandages. Nothing hurt, not anymore--save for the hurt of healing her body still remembered, a pleasant sort of hurt like holding too much of an aspect without balancing.

__

Aymeric’s eyes no longer questioned her but his hands softened: they reached for her face, one thumb smoothing over the surface of her lips before he kissed her again. She grasped his hips and pulled him against her, drowning in heat again, rekindling the spark that licked its way up her spine and made her shiver--shiver and tingle as if her blood was flowing again for the first time in memory.

__

“Alyx.” The way he said her name was somewhere between a prayer and a curse, wanting but _pained_. “I thought you were—”

__

It wasn’t the burn of healing magic nor the rush of energy from any medicinal concoction she had choked down in the last several days, but there was something similar caused by the desperation of his movements and the sound of his voice crumbling to pieces against her skin.

__

“Even when I knew for certain you were alive, I—”

__

"I'm alive," she assured him, meaning it in comfort, and the words no longer tasted like blood. They no longer tasted like a question or an excuse or an apology--they tasted _real_. Her heart and body were worn from battle and grief yet each and every one of her senses was so awake, so startlingly clear, that her pain felt like a distant memory. She smiled as she clung to him, each sharp and shallow breath she took a lifetime's worth of air in her lungs.

__

"I'm alive," she repeated, as much to herself as to him, knowing that in the lowest depth of her weakness he had helped her to believe it again.

__

 

__

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned above, there will hopefully be more to come from this same stay at the Canopy. Organizing my thoughts on this really important period in Alyx's development has been hell, but I'm glad I was able to make some sense out of this part of it at least! (And I'm emotionally exhausted, yet again, feelings are a mistake)


	22. A Little Less Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She has never voiced this fear just as he has never voiced his own, but his fear is one he means to face, and he knows only she can help him do so._
> 
> On trauma, tenderness, and bravery.

 

 

Usually, the comfort of her presence is enough. He requires no more than the warmth of her beside him, the soft but steadying touch of her hand. The gentle anchor of her voice is stronger than the grip of his fear and the weight of the mind's illusions, and sometimes merely by sleeping beside him she dispels what would cause him to lie awake and greet the dawn with eyes unrested.

Usually.

This night, this night that has soon become morning, she has failed him, though he doesn't think of it that way.  _She_  does, and the sleepiness in her voice when she speaks is tinged with worry.

"You have not been sleeping," she says it more as an observation than a question, even if she is not entirely certain. For an instant he looks to be surprised she's noticed, before he thinks better of it-- _of course she's noticed,_  he thinks, and tries to smile when he looks at her in the dark.

"Not well," he affirms.

"Dreams?" She needn't inquire further. She knows what ails him, knows better how little he loves to speak of it. He shifts in the blankets and lets out a breath that's as good as any answer with words, closing his eyes only briefly before they're anxiously encouraged to open again. 

Usually, once woken he can return to sleep unhindered, but on a night like this one Alyx's stomach ties in knots as she hesitates, but finally, ultimately relents, and asks him:

"Would you let me help you?"

In another sort of mood, on another sort of night, she would ask the same question with a kiss and a smirk they would help  _each other_  sleep, but they both know that's not what she means now. She means to help him in a way she never has before, she means to help him with magic.

There's a waver in her voice because she is so afraid to offer,  _so_  afraid to share with him anything that would cause him discomfort, even knowing it may be exactly what he needs. These sort of nights have come too often of late, and she knows it's wearing him down-- however she also knows better than most that such 'help' or even the suggestion risks unveiling the very demons she would seek to quiet, and she's afraid, terribly afraid, of him being afraid of _her._

They've spoken of it before. She's done it in his presence, before, to others. Aymeric remembers watching her remove the bloodied gauntlet of a soldier writhing in pain to grip his bare hand with her own and put him to sleep with a few nigh-inaudible words.  _"I'm no healer,"_  she explained to him afterward with a tired smile,  _"but I can help him sleep through the pain for now."_

She told him about her life in Ul'dah, a city never silent, a city full of minds near torn apart by the Calamity. She told him she used to help the sick and the mad because it was what she could do. She could not heal those who could not afford medicine, nor did she have the coin to provide it to them, but she could do  _this_ , at least, and it was something. 

And yet despite the tenderness of this particular gift she holds back for the same reasons she refrains from the sort of cavalier displays of everyday thaumaturgy she would indulge in elsewhere. She's seen his scars. She does not need him to tell her with words or even the subtle tension in his jaw that he is less than comfortable with such destructive elements being toyed with so casually, not after what happened, not after what was done to him. 

He knows what she has done to her enemies and has seen her do it before his eyes--despite how in awe of her he may be, below the surface, the fear is there. Even if this is different. Even if with her he's safe, untouchable.

"I.... have hesitated to even offer," she murmurs, the beat of silence long enough for her resolve to waver, "I would never...."

"I know," he says, and he does. She has never voiced this fear just as he has never voiced his own, but his fear is one he means to face, and he knows only she can help him do so. 

_"I will never hurt you,"_  she told him half through clenched teeth, countless nights ago with eyes full of tears as the warmth of her hands mapped the marks on his skin,  _"Nor will I ever allow such hurt come to you ever again."_

He believed her. He still believes her now.

He looks into her eyes, barely visible in the dark.

"How long will it last?" He finally asks. She looks mildly surprised at his inquiry, but there's an expectant hope in her face half contoured by moonlight.

"No longer than you need," she says. His fingers smooth along the side of her face before he kisses her, and when they draw apart he answers the fluttering question of her eyelashes.

"Please," he whispers into the long silence.

"You're sure?"

"I am," his gaze is not fearless but it is determined, determined and weary enough that she is inclined to believe him. Alyx breathes deeply, her chest swells with a heat that toes the line between nervous and relieved, and takes his hand in her own.

"I'll be here with you," she promises him, and presses her forehead gently to his. There's a humming in her ears and a prickle in her fingers as she feels him squeeze her hand. "Just close your eyes."

He does as he's instructed and the the last thing he sees is her lifting her chin to kiss him again. Her lips are warm and her breath is steady and he swears he can feel something move, something change, almost as if a beam of sunlight had passed across his eyelids where he lay. Their closeness makes it near effortless: Alyx barely has to push at all, but as she breathes the words against his lips she feels his fingers tighten around hers.

Gradually, with each breath, his hand relaxes.

Aymeric falls asleep, surrenders to warmth and silence with little resistance. For a moment Alyx doesn't move, all of her senses focused on his breathing against her lips. When she draws away he wears the relaxed expression she so longed to see: his brow is softened and his shoulders again relaxed, soothed by the weightlessness of dreamless sleep. She eases deeper into the pillows as the aether quiets and watches him for long and silent moments, never letting go of his hand. 

Alyx exhales in the dark, and feels her mind lightened despite her fatigue. It is some time still before she falls asleep herself, but when she does, she rests easier. Usually, the comfort of his presence is all she needs, and on this night it may have been enough.

But on this night she rests easy because now they rest together, unburdened and a little less afraid.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I have wanted to write for a very long time, I just had to find the words to do so... ended up being inspired by two different prompts I've had in my inbox for almost a month, collectively. Just goes to show that "if it's important, they'll call back." 
> 
> Obviously this touches on some very major headcanons I have about Aymeric and his post-Vault trauma, as well as a little bit of Alyx backstory. Save for his observations about her being formidable in battle I have not addressed (in writing) the fact that the woman he loves is a magic user, and that for somebody who was probably definitely tortured with magic in recent memory that might bring up some Things. Combine the fact that Alyx does not always see herself in the best of lights when it comes to the power she wields... it's a recipe for some serious things to work though together. More to come.
> 
> I want to apologize again for the weirdness from a couple weeks ago. That piece is still in progress and will absolutely be shared in full when the right time comes. 
> 
> You're all amazing, thank you for reading, commenting, being here with me and these two.


	23. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light suffers an uneasy recovery after wielding dangerous magicks in her battle with Thordan and the Heaven's Ward, and while tensions finally break and emotions flare, she finds unexpected comfort in Aymeric's company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after the end of 3.0, vague spoilers for that obviously. 
> 
> The Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, infirmary, early evening.

 

 

 

"Any word?" Aymeric asked.

"A few," Alphinaud replied, seemingly startled awake by the sound of the question, and Aymeric wondered how long the boy had been sitting there. There was the hint of forced levity in his voice when he spoke again with a half-smile over his shoulder: "She is quieter than usual. Our Warrior of Light is a notorious sleep-talker."

Aymeric could not help but smile slightly at the thought, but nevertheless felt the weight behind the observation. In truth, Alyx looked closer to death than sleep: her already fair skin was nearly ashen-white, save for the edges of dark bruises he could see blooming on her temple and shoulders. Even the vibrant copper of her hair seemed...paled, somewhat, but he decided it was likely the dreary light of the lamps. The pure white bedsheets and cotton gown typical of the infirmary only made her look more sickly.

It had been several days, though Aymeric was not certain exactly how many. Time had seemed to run together of late--perhaps the lack of sleep was to blame. He had a feeling, however, that Alphinaud Levellieur knew exactly how much time Alyx had been in this state, and that he had been beside her for the duration.

"Is there aught I can bring you, Master Levellieur? Some tea perhaps?"

"That," Alphinaud croaked, and then cleared his throat, "Is a most generous offer. I could certainly do with some."

_Good,_  Aymeric thought,  _Something to do._ He felt as similarly helpless as whenever friends or family were ill or injured beyond the point of medicine or healing--not that he had much knowledge of such things anyway. If he could do naught to help Alyx, at least he could help her very tired companion. He nodded and turned to leave but heard a breathy murmur from the bed behind him, followed by the creak of Alphinaud sitting forward in his chair. He looked back toward the bed, unable to make out more than a word.

“What does she say?" Aymeric inquired softly, "A name?"

“Rhodry," Alphinaud said. "Her brother.”

“I was not aware she had a brother.”

“She is not one to speak much of her own loss.”

“I see," he said, and fell silent. His thoughts strayed to Lord Haurchefant, and Aymeric wondered how many brothers Alyx had lost. He swallowed the lump growing in his throat and again regarded the back of the boy's silver head, neck and shoulders a subtle portrait of fatigue. 

"I beg your leave. I shall see to the tea," he said, and left through the open infirmary room door.  _Something,_  he thought, he had to do something.

  
*

  
Alphinaud watched Alyx's eyelids flutter and wondered if she was dreaming of her brother. Dreaming at all would be an improvement over what he could only imagine was crushing nothingness following such an extreme loss of aether. She had a poor habit of overexerting herself, but never like this...never had she attempted magic so far beyond her ken, never had she used her own aether in place of the pooled resources of a group...

His fists clenched in his lap. Never had she been this close to death. 

Alphinaud took a breath and softened his hands when another murmur escaped her lips, though this time he could not understand. He allowed himself to relax back into his chair, the post of his vigil, and struggled to keep his mind from fear of his friend never waking. He was done begging at her bedside, he was done hiding his tears from the shuffle of chirurgeons--and Ser Aymeric, and Lord Artoirel--now it was all he could do to wait.

Though far more patient than Alyx, Alphinaud hated this sort of waiting more than anything.

So when she gasped suddenly awake, her green eyes panicked rather than bleary with sleep, the relief that flooded him nearly made him collapse.

"Alyx," he breathed, "You..."

" _Estinien_ ," Alyx finally rasped when she found her voice, blinking, swallowing, gulping for air as if she had been drowning, "Where is he? Where is Estinien?"

At the immediate mention of the Azure Dragoon, the relief that swelled in Alphinaud's chest went cold again with anxiety. 

"I was hoping you could tell us," he said, forcing the waver from his voice with a careful clenching of his fingers.

Alyx took another shaking breath. 

"He was... I was... they Eyes, they..." she swallowed thickly, her pale face a mask of worry and pain, "I couldn't see... I couldn't..."

"What? You could not see what?"

"Something... happened, he... it was all red. It hurt," she blinked and heavy tears rolled out of her eyes, "It hurt so much. He hurt so much. It was so  _loud_. And now he's..."

"Alyx, where is Estinien?"

"He's alive. I  _know_  he's alive," she breathed, "but I...I can't hear him anymore."

Alphinaud pressed his lips together into a firm line to keep them from quivering. A maelstrom of grief and worry and relief and anger filled his head with heat. He wanted to trust her judgement, but given the state of the Flagship he still feared the worst. At least, some small part of him reasoned, at least he had not lost  _her._

"Why did you do it?" He implored her weakly. 

She turned to look at him with knit brows, and tears welled in his eyes in spite of himself. That same quiet and reasonable part of him knew this was not the right time for such questions, but he was weary and raw and could not hold it in any longer. 

He hated how badly she had frightened him. 

"How could you do it? They... they told me what happened. How could you have done something so reckless?"

"I did what I had to do," she said, voice still shaking.

"No," Alphinaud said through clenched teeth, "You did what you wanted to do, without any thought of your own well-being. Or Estinien's..."

"I did  _not kill_  Estinien," she pushed herself up onto her elbows, green eyes now alive with fury. It sounded as if the statement was directed partially at herself. "And I did  _not_  kill myself. But if I had known I'd be subject to such ridicule upon waking I might have rather stayed asleep."

Alphinaud had risen to his feet angrily without realizing it, now looking down at her through his tears.  _Like hells you would have,_  he thought, but unfortunately his heart spoke from a place of deeper pain.

"Lord Haurchefant died to protect you!" His voice cut through the quiet of the room like a bitter blade. The look on her face made him hate his own words immediately, despite their truth. 

"Don't you fucking dare," she growled weakly, " _Don't--"_

He continued regardless, consumed by a desperate storm of emotion. 

"Do you think this is any way to repay his sacrifice?"

The question hung between them among shallow, quaking breaths, before Alyx once again gathered the strength to speak.

"Get out," was all she said, looking away from him towards the window. Tears streamed down her cheeks but she made no effort to wipe them away. There was a beat of silence while he hesitated; though he was not surprised by her reaction, it stung.

"I must needs report to Tataru and the others," Alphinaud said in some semblance of agreement, anger subsiding into a cold regret, "Surely they will be wanting to see their hero alive and well."

And with that he slipped through the door and down the corridor, intending not to seek out his friends, but rather be alone with his relief.

  
*

  
Aymeric had been waylaid considerably on his mission, as was common whenever within the walls of the Congregation. A small silvery blur rushed past him, and he called out to capture his attention, and perhaps to apologize for taking so long.

"Master Alphinaud!"

He did not reply. The boy did not even seem to hear him. Puzzled, Aymeric watched him disappear around a corner, wondering what could possibly have caused him to leave his post in such a rush.

_Not a happy rush, either_ , he realized, and his heart pounded in his throat.

Hands still full of requisition documents he strode quickly down the corridor toward the Warrior of Light's room, worry settling in the pit of his stomach. The door was slightly ajar when he arrived, yet he hesitated. Perhaps she was with a healer now, perhaps he ought to wait...

He rapped on the door with his knuckles, hoping he would get a reply, yet not expecting the one he did receive:

"Back to apologize already? That was quick." 

The voice was definitely Alyx's, but shaky, bitter. Aymeric hazarded to enter the room, finding her alone but sitting upright, her pale cheeks stained with tears. When she saw him her eyes lit up in surprise and perhaps a hint of embarrassment; she hastily looked away.

"I imagine 'twas not from me you were expecting an apology," he said gently, desperate to break the silence.

"No," she agreed tiredly, and looked away, "You have done nothing to apologize for."

Aymeric begged to differ.

"How are you faring?" He asked her, knowing immediately it was a stupid question, but he had to know. "Are you--"

"I don't know where Estinien is," she said suddenly, staring straight at the wall in front of her.

Aymeric had not intended to ask, certainly not  _yet_ , even though the question had weighed heavy on his mind for days. 

"I..." he began, but Alyx continued.

"I don't know what happened to him. After the battle, he was there," she desperately choked out the words, as if trying to expel them from her body. "I couldn't move, I couldn't... I was too tired. I was barely conscious. I did it to myself. It was _my fault_. If I hadn't, if I--" her voice broke, and she gasped for breath. She folded in on herself, and her shoulders quaked.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed brokenly, and began to weep. " _I'm so sorry."_

Aymeric was stunned momentarily into paralysis. Something about seeing her this way shook him to the core: never before had she seemed so small and so vulnerable. Even at the Vault, despite her tears she stood tall, almost as if in direct defiance of her heartbreak. Ever since, he had seen the grief in her eyes when she smiled and known it as well as his own, and yet she carried on with her head held high, almost more powerful than before. She was like the string of a bow or a violin pulled too tight, full of power yet finally broken in front of him, and it was all he could do to kneel at the bedside and place a timid hand to her shoulder. 

"I'm so sorry," she repeated. Her voice was jagged and strained, but the blade of her shoulder seemed to relax under his hand.

"My dear friend," he said softly, "You have nothing to apologize for. You have saved us all."

"I couldn't save  _him_ ," she drew her bandaged hands away from her face and he could see her fingers shaking. "I couldn't--I couldn't protect him."

"Estinien?"

Alyx turned to look at him, and he saw her-- _truly_  saw her, saw Alyx, the woman who wore the title. He saw a woman full of generosity and grief and love for her friends who clenched her teeth before speaking again.

_"Estinien. Haurchefant. Rhodry._ " The way she said each name sounded as if it physically hurt. She swallowed, tearing her eyes from his. "I couldn't--"

Aymeric realized his hand, nearly moving of its own accord, had been stroking timid circles over her back as she wept. Disregarding any worries of propriety in such extreme circumstances he continued, hoping it could somehow soothe her, even if only the edges. With his free hand he produced a simple handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat. He knew well they were beyond platitudes and perhaps even such insignificant gestures of comfort but he knew no other way.

"The burdens you carry are many," he said as he offered her the square of unfolding cotton, "This guilt need not be one more."

She looked back at him, and he swore something in her eyes told him to practice what he preached. Perhaps this burden was one they shared, one of several. She reached for the handkerchief with a hand hesitant but no longer trembling. She did not wipe her eyes, but simply held the fabric in her hands, feeling it between her fingers. 

"Aymeric," she almost whispered, her eyes bright with tears, "I'm so sorry."

"I know," he said sadly, "I know you are."

When her walls crumbled and she began again to weep, he rose from the floor to sit half-way on the bed beside her. Given the circumstances, he decided, it was not only appropriate but necessary. Alyx collapsed slightly into his arm when he put it around her, and he marveled at how she could be larger than life and yet so small beside him, muffling her quiet sobs with his handkerchief.

Light spilled in through the slightly open door until a shadow passed in front of it. Alphinaud Levellieur peered into the room, his face somber, yet his eyes questioning. Aymeric did not know what had passed between them before he arrived, but he sensed further  _"I'm sorry"s_  were to come. He smiled slightly at the boy whose eyes softened, and then Aymeric heard him say in a quiet voice into the hallway beyond:

"Later, perhaps," he said, and looked back at Aymeric with half a smile, "Though she is recovered, the Warrior of Light is not yet ready to entertain visitors."

And then he closed the door, leaving the two of them in the unlikely sanctuary of the Congregation infirmary's best room. 

Long moments passed, and Aymeric's eyes strayed to the documents he had haphazardly dropped to the floor beside the bed, no longer remembering their purpose and caring very little to find out. He said nothing, but he rest his chin on top of Alyx's head as she silently wept, and for a few precious moments they were only themselves. He was not Lord Commander of the Temple Knights nor was she the Warrior of Light: he was simply a man comforting a friend, a friend who needed to grieve where the world could not touch her--and, even if just for a time, let lie its unfathomable weight.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation between Alyx and Alphinaud is one that I had planned for a very long time, though the scene following was loosely inspired by the catharsis offered by the Stormblood Dark Knight storyline, which I finally just finished a few days ago. Alyx isn’t quite there yet at this point, but this is a start, and important foundation for her and Aymeric's relationship.


End file.
